


At Storm's Heart

by Aphaia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Maybe a little angst, Multi, Novelization, POV Multiple, Romance, Slow Burn, maybe a little fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aphaia/pseuds/Aphaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second Iseult Trevelyan gets free of her dark past—the only freedom she's known in her whole life—Andraste slaps a Mark on her hand and pushes her out of the Fade. Now she's bound to the Inquisition and former Templar Cullen Rutherford, who struggles to bring order to the chaos despite his haunted past. </p><p>This is a novelization of the events of Dragon Age: Inquisition, focusing on the romance of Cullen and the Inquisitor. The bones of the story are canon, but I take liberties with the details and add many minor events/character development scenarios. Mature rating for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wrath of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter repeats a lot of dialogue from the game, which is not the case for later chapters. This is my first posted fanfic--hope you enjoy!

The prisoner's few belongings were arranged in a neat row on the table. An unmarked vial of perfume. A leather-bound book whose ciphered writing was punctuated regularly with neat drawings of building plans, maps, or arcane iconography. Two quills and a half-empty pot of ink. A set of thieves' tools—various lockpicks and bits of wire—wrapped in hide and tied into a roll. Two steel daggers, plain but fine, with black leather-wrapped hilts and matching sheaths meant to be worn around the thigh. Several smaller throwing knives to be secreted about one's person. A whetstone. Two vambraces embossed with astrological motifs, very fine. An unassuming set of clothes such as a traveler might wear, drab in color but of sturdy material. A soft pair of high boots, well-worn. 

Leliana pondered each item in turn, running her fingertips lightly across the various materials. There was not much to be gleaned from the assemblage at first glance, but a lifetime of observation told her much. The perfume was from the Free Marches as evidenced by the slightly blue-tinted glass of the bottle. The daggers and vambraces were Orlesian. Assuming they had been worked by the same smith, the vambraces told her they were from Val Royeaux and were quite costly. The clothes were so carefully nondescript that in combination with the other nameless artifacts—and the ciphered book—she could tell that the bearer was a professional spy.

As for the book—it was causing her no small trouble to discern the method of cipher, since the script was one she had never seen before. It did not seem to be merely an encrypted text, but an entire language that she did not recognize. The drawings were unlabelled—presumably any pertinent information was contained within the text so as not to provide clues should the book be intercepted. A very learned spy, Leliana concluded. Only a handful of spymasters could have trained one such as this. And yet for what particular purpose this spy had been sent to the Conclave, Leliana still did not know.

Behind her a tall, mail-clad woman paced angrily, casting erratic shadows in the flickering torchlight.

"Do stop, Cassandra," Leliana urged, rubbing her temples.

"We must find out what she knows," the tall woman insisted, her accent heavily Navarran.

"It will be difficult to do so while she remains unconscious." Indeed, the prisoner had been unconscious for nearly a full day now following her fall from the summit of the ruined Conclave. How she—and she alone—had survived was yet another mystery.

"So much is in turmoil." Leliana sighed. "And yet this one woman—a nobody from the looks of it," her gesture swept the length of the table, "seems to be at the heart of everything."

"Not everything," Cassandra disagreed. "But too much, it is true."

Leliana knew the other woman too well to be fooled by her blustery façade. She and Cassandra had served as the Left and Right Hands of the Divine Justinia for years now, and what she was before her was a tired woman who refused to let herself mourn the death of her mentor.

Just as well, thought Leliana. With the disastrous Conclave and the sudden Breach that had torn open the sky, they had too much to deal with to spare time for bereavement. Mourning would have to wait.

What the Breach in the sky portended Leliana could only guess. Their troubles had begun months before, when the Mage's Circle of Kirkwall had rebelled against the Templars, destroying half the city and spurring the insurgency of mages throughout the Free Marches, Orlais, and Ferelden. Privately, Leliana felt that the Circles should have been dissolved long ago. Keeping mages as prisoners was inhumane and would only foment turmoil. However, the Chantry was so fractured now that she dare not speak out against the official stance. With the loss of their leader, the appearance of unity was all that was keeping any semblance of order.

Quieter, but no less disconcerting, had been the sudden withdrawal of all of the Grey Wardens from the lands. No one knew where they had gone or why, or what purpose they sought. She had attempted to contact Alistair and Alyssandra, the rulers of Ferelden and Grey Wardens both. Alistair's reply had been short and enigmatic, communicating only that Alyx had joined the missing Wardens on whatever quest they pursued. He did not know of her whereabouts or when she would return. Alistair had remained behind to govern the kingdom. If Leliana knew him at all, the decision would have chafed.

Leliana's deepest fear was that the two events were somehow related; that the Breach in the sky and the sudden call to action of the Grey Wardens foretold another Blight. The last Blight had ended ten years ago. Another this close in time was unheard of, and yet what other explanation was there? Then again, there were no reports of darkspawn. The news from Orzimmar was quiet; the depths of the dwarven tunnels where darkspawn dwelled were no more dangerous than usual.

Her dour musings were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Chantry guards. He sketched a bow, and said somewhat breathless, "Seeker, Lady Nightingale. The prisoner is awake."

Cassandra snapped into action. "Have her brought here—no, to the antechamber—and make sure she is bound securely." Their outpost had only a rudimentary gaol, so there was no true interrogation chamber. Cassandra would simply have to make do, Leliana supposed wryly. She would have to make sure to keep the Seeker's verve for interrogation in check. She rose to follow Cassandra down the darkened hallway.

 

***

 The prisoner knelt in the middle of the room, hands bound before her. The left hand flared with random green energy. Each time it did so, the prisoner flinched. Chantry guards ringed her with swords drawn. They were clearly uneasy. The antechamber was a converted portion of the temple, and the prisoner knelt in the exact center of a floral motif worked in different colored stone that ringed outward to the edges of the room. A coincidence or a subversive act of showmanship? Cassandra could not guess.

The Seeker examined the prisoner with eyes narrowed. A young woman in her early twenties, she guessed, accounting for the toll that these past few days had taken on her physically. Under a layer of grime and a mass of tangled dark hair, she was attractive, nevertheless, and she bore herself with weary dignity in spite of her current predicament.

Leliana assumed an unobtrusive position in one of the room's dark corners, hood obscuring her features. Cassandra, meanwhile, strode directly to the prisoner, grasping her by the chin, and stated, "Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you."

She released the woman's face roughly. Anger flashed in the prisoner's eyes and she glared defiantly at Cassandra. "You think _I'm_ responsible?"

"Explain this," Cassandra snapped, seizing the left hand that was marked by a glowing green sigil and holding it in front of the prisoner's gaze.

The other woman averted her eyes. "I can't," she said wearily. A frown creased her brow.

"What do you mean you _can't_?" Cassandra demanded.

"I don't know what that is, or how it got there."

"You're lying!" Cassandra lunged and pulled the woman off her knees, shaking her violently. Hands on her shoulders pulled her back, and suddenly Leliana stood in front of her. She had not heard the other woman move.

"We need her, Cassandra," Leliana chided.

Cassandra retreated behind Leliana, allowing the spymaster to take over.

"Do you remember what happened?" she asked. "How this began?"

The prisoner frowned. "I remember running. _Things_ were chasing me, and then…a woman?"

"A woman?" Leliana did not hid the surprise in her voice.

"She reached out to me, but then…"

Cassandra had seen what had happened next. From the bottom of the ruined building, she had seen the prisoner fall. It _had_ seemed like the outline of a figure, surrounded by glowing light, had stood atop the ruin. The guards who had been closest had described her as looking like Divine Justinia, but Cassandra was not willing to accept their testimony as absolute.

The Seeker resolved that perhaps showing would provoke more information than simple interrogation. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana," she told the spymaster. "I will take her to the rift."

Leliana nodded assent and departed. Belatedly, Cassandra realized she did not even know the prisoner's name. When she asked, the woman told her it was Iseult.

"Iseult, then," Cassandra said nodding, ignoring for now the lack of a surname. "Bring her clothes," she instructed one of the guards, dismissing the others to allow the prisoner a semblance of privacy while she dressed.

"What did happen?" Iseult asked as she was lacing up her boots.

The Seeker sighed. "It will be easier to show you."

 

***

Iseult stepped blinking into the light, rubbing the wrists that had been chafed raw by the heavy iron manacles. When her vision cleared, what she saw nearly brought her to her knees.

Dark clouds roiled in the sky above, the swirling mass punctuated by flashes of green lightning. At the epicenter of the storm, directly over the ruins of the temple where the Conclave had been held, was a hole in the sky. It flared with angry green light, and the debris of the temple's collapse hung suspended in the air between, floating in irregular patterns between the sky and the earth's surface below. Arcs of green lightning connected the hole in the sky to the foundations which until only yesterday had supported one of the oldest temples since the Chant of Light.

Behind her, the tall woman—whom reconnaissance had told her was Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine—said, "We call it 'the Breach.' It's a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour."

Of course, Iseult had heard of the demon realm which corrupted mages traversed in dreams, sometimes pledging themselves to demons and allowing them to enter into the mundane world. There were scholars who studied such things, usually within Mage's Circles, and whatever information they gathered was carefully guarded against the rest of the population. Iseult's wetnurse had frightened her with tales of demons haunting her if she refused to eat her vegetables. It was hard to face the reality of childhood nightmares.

Cassandra continued. "It's not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave."

"An explosion can do that?"

"This one did." The tall woman gazed at her unflinching. "Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world." Each word fell like a hammerstroke.

As if to underscore these portents, the Breach flared and thunder rolled across the sky. A searing jolt coursed from Iseult's left hand throughout her body, wracking her with spasms of pain as she fell blindly to her knees. She doubled over, clinching her fist into her stomach.

Cassandra knelt beside her, steadying her with both hands. "Each time the Breach expands, that mark on your hand spreads. And it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time."

"How can I—this mark—stop this?"

"It may be able to close the Breach. Whether that's possible is something we shall discover shortly. It is our only chance, however. And yours."

Iseult scowled. The pain had faded to a dull throbbing sensation. "You still think I did this? To myself?"

Cassandra looked at her levelly. "Not intentionally. _Something_ clearly went wrong."

"And if I'm not responsible?"

"Someone is, and you are our only suspect. You wish to prove your innocence? This is the only way."

To her slight credit, the Seeker did not dissemble. She made her intentions plain. If Iseult did not exactly appreciate being forced to prove her innocence after being imprisoned and thrown into a dungeon, she did not see any other way of escape. For the moment, she must bide her time and follow the Seeker's orders.

She knew little of Cassandra Pentaghast, only that the Nevarran noblewoman had gained acclaim at a young age and had served as the Divine's Right Hand for more than a decade. She had a reputation for fairness, even if her manner was gruff. All in all, Iseult decided that Cassandra would be unlikely to simply slit her throat and leave her in a ditch somewhere. That was the sense Iseult had gotten from the other woman who interrogated her. Despite her gentle voice, that hooded visage had sent a chill up her spine.

On the contrary, she sensed that the tall woman before her would protect her until the matter was resolved. It would be up to Iseult to ensure her innocence was proven without revealing her master's involvement with the Conclave.

She drew a breath to steady herself. "I understand."

"Good."

"I'll do what I can. Whatever it takes."

Cassandra nodded, surprised. The Seeker helped Iseult to her feet, and they proceeded through the encampment. Everything was in disarray. There were a few permanent structures—mostly village houses—and more tents for visiting emissaries. The important people were all dead now, having been killed by the temple's collapse. What remained were panicked retinues: a handful of personal guards, bodyservants, grooms, and the Chantry personnel who were facilitating the proceedings. They moved silent and subdued about their daily tasks, pausing to glare sullenly at her when she passed.

"They have decided your guilt," Cassandra informed her. "They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia. The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between mages and templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead.

"We lash out, like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves. As she did.  Until the Breach is sealed." A guard pushed open the postern gate to allow them to pass through.

The Seeker paused once they were outside the gate.  "There will be a trial," she said. "I can promise no more. Come. It is not far."

Iseult was not very reassured by the Seeker's grim promise. What one woman would be able to do against a witch hunt—the odds were not optimistic. The faces of the villagers had been filled with pure hatred for her. If she was unable to resolve this Breach situation, she would have to make her escape, and quickly.

"How did I survive the blast?" Iseult asked.

"They say you stepped out of a rift. They say the figure of a woman stood behind you. Everything in the valley was laid to waste in the explosion, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes."

At that, Iseult fell silent. Cassandra strode along the snowy path, and Iseult struggled to match her pace. Her legs were cramped and sore from the cell and kneeling on the stone floor. The path afforded a direct line of sight to the Breach and its spiral of green lightning and debris. A flare brought her to her knees, but Cassandra heaved her up by her elbow and forced her to continue moving.

"The pulses are coming faster," the Seeker informed her as they pressed onward. After a short while, they reached a gatehouse that protected a bridge. At a word from Cassandra, the guards opened the gate. As they stepped out onto the bridge, a crack of lightning splintered the stone beneath their feet. Iseult slid down among the rubble, grasping for a handhold, until she landed hard on the frozen riverbed below.

The ground roiled like black tar, and suddenly the same evil green light of the Breach arced through it, ripping through the fabric of the world. The thing that emerged from the fissure could only be a demon. Shrouded in black, with sinewy arms and elongated claws, the creature's sibilant shriek filled her soul with terror.

"Get behind me," Cassandra shouted, unsheathing her sword and unstrapping the round shield from her back. Iseult scrambled to her feet, slipping on the slick surface, as the Seeker advanced on the creature.

Iseult had barely regained her footing when it was all over. Slain by a blow from Cassandra's sword, the demon's form dissipated into the black tar that still disfigured the surface of the river.

The Seeker looked grim. "The first demon you see is always…unsettling." Iseult suspected she was trying to be reassuring, but her efforts were not very effective.

At Cassandra's urging, they followed the frozen river bed until it intersected with the snowy footpath. Fortunately they proceeded without further incident, traveling up a set of stone stairs that wound around the side of a snowcapped hill. As they passed around the bend, the wind carried the sounds of combat to them: a pitched battle, not far ahead.

"We're getting close to the rift," Cassandra shouted above the wind and clangor. "You can hear the fighting."

"Who's fighting?" Iseult asked.

"You'll see soon. We must help them."

At that, the Seeker set off at a jog. Iseult struggled to match her pace, lungs burning with the icy cold and legs too tired to obey.  The path opened up to a ruined part of the village. Debris smoldered all around, and ahead Iseult could see soldiers engaged in fighting more demons. Several bodies lay motionless on the ground.

The demons took more than one form. There were some of the shadowy variety she had first encountered, but others were tall—twice the height of a man—and impossibly thin, with huge raking claws. Others were small and wispy and where they moved left a trail of bitter ice. Above the heads of all was a rift, pulsing green and suspended in the air.

Cassandra immediately plunged into the fray, while Iseult, unarmed, hung at the edge of battle. She was noticed by one of the combatants—an elf mage—who upon spotting her grabbed her left and dragged her toward the rift.

"Quickly!" the elf yelled. "Before more come through!"

Grip firm on her wrist he held up her hand to the rift in the sky. Iseult gasped in shock as crackling magical energy flowed from the mark on her palm up to the rift. She could sense how it tore the fabric of reality, and intuitively, she knew how to close it. She concentrated; it was almost like darning a stocking. She let out a cry of relief as the energy left her, and she pitched forward, clutching her hand. The fighting had died around her, and the soldiers who were standing had turned toward her.

She turned to the elf mage. "What did you do?"

He replied in a serene tone. "I did nothing. The credit is yours."

"You mean this?" She held out her marked palm.

"Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake—and it seems I was correct."

In the sudden stillness, she was able to register her companions. The elf had pale skin and a shaved head. His manner of speaking was calm and assured. Iseult felt soothed that at least someone seemed to know what was going on. Cassandra stood at his shoulder. Opposite them was a dwarf, strangely beardless though with an impressive expanse of russet chest hair peeking up through the collar of his doublet. He holstered an unusual crossbow in a sling across his back.

"Meaning it could also close the Breach itself," Cassandra mused, returning to the subject at hand.

The elf contemplated this. "Possibly. It seems you hold the key to our salvation." That last comment he directed toward Iseult.

The dwarf spoke up then. "Good to know. Here I thought we'd all be ass-deep in demons forever." By his accent, Iseult knew he was a Free Marcher, and not a dwarf of Orzimmar. "Varric Tethras," he said by way of introduction. "Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong." He winked at Cassandra, who grimaced.

Iseult found herself at a loss for words. "Er…that's a nice crossbow," she stammered at last.

Varric beamed. "Ah, isn't she? Bianca and I have been through a lot together."

"You named your crossbow Bianca?"

"Of course! And she'll be great company in the valley."

Cassandra strode forward. "Absolutely not," she declared with an emphatic gesture. "Your help is appreciated, Varric, but—"

"Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?" Varric asked. "Your soldiers aren't in control anymore. You need me."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, but she made no protest. Iseult was surprised that the dwarf could buck the Seeker's authority in such a manner.

"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions," the elf said, politely easing the tension. "I am pleased to see you still live."

"He means, 'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,'" Varric said sardonically.

Iseult was surprised at that. "Then I owe you my thanks." Her reply was sincere.

He inclined his head toward her. "Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process." He gave her a wry smile. "Cassandra, you should know the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen. Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine _any_ mage having such power."

The Seeker nodded. "Understood. We must get to the forward camp quickly."

"Well," Varric said. "Bianca's excited!"

 

***

 Varric admired the grim determination of the prisoner—Iseult, as she had introduced herself—as they forged ahead on the winding path the lead upward to the forward camp. He did not envy her waking up to find herself imprisoned in the Seeker's charge—he had done so himself many months before. He did not know what Cassandra thought about the girl, but she seemed innocent of all this Breach nonsense to him, and he was an excellent judge of character.

She remained something of a mystery, however, and he took it upon himself to unravel a bit as they walked, as the path was thankfully free of demons and they had nothing else to do.

"So, _are_ you innocent?" he asked.

The prisoner shook her head. "I don't remember what happened."

"That'll get you every time," he replied. "Should've spun a story." It reminded him of his interrogation at the hands of the Seeker. It had been only a few months since she had dragged him from Kirkwall after the explosion of the Mage's Circle there, and yet now, those events seemed to belong to the distant past. Not that it made him like the Cassandra any better.

As if to prove his point, Cassandra interjected, "That's what _you_ would have done."

Varric bristled. "It's more believable. Less prone to result in premature executions."

Cassandra scowled—it was her customary expression—and they continued in silence for a time.

Finally, Varric said, "I take it you're from the Free Marches."

"Oh?" Iseult replied.

"Accent," he explained. "I'm from Kirkwall, but you're from…further east, maybe?"

"My family is from Ostwick. That's quite the ear you have."

Varric grinned. "I'm all kinds of impressive."

Cassandra snorted ahead of them. The Seeker begrudged him even minor victories.

"Ostwick is a long way off," he commented, choosing to ignore Cassandra's derision.

"I've lived in Orlais for over a decade now," she said. "I was sent by my family to be educated in Val Royeaux, and recently I was a scribe to Marquis Durellion."

"Ah, that explains why you were at the Conclave."

She failed to comment, instead asking, "And you? Kirkwall is also a long way from here."

"Ah." He cleared his throat and glanced at Cassandra. "That's true. The Seeker here thought I was, ah, too _valuable_ to be left behind after what happened with Kirkwall's Circle."

"Were you there? During the fighting, I mean."

"I was. I was good friends with the Champion of Kirwall. You may have heard of him. Still am, I suppose—friends, I mean. Nobody's heard from him since Knight-Commander Meredith's death." He glanced slyly at Cassandra to see if she was paying attention. She appeared to be focused on surveying the terrain ahead for threats, but you could never be too careful.

Iseult nodded. "I've heard of him. Hawke. I have a cousin who followed him for a time. Perhaps you knew him? Sebastian Vael is his name."

"Ol' Sebs is your cousin? You don't say. Yeah, I knew him. We were never close. He was too, well, ah…"

"I believe the phrase you're searching for is 'uptight prick.'"

Varric laughed. "You've got me there."

"You needn't worry about offending me. I haven't seen Sebastian in years, but he was that way as a child. I can only imagine was the adult version is like. Visiting Starkhaven was always such a bore. I'd heard he returned to Starkhaven to claim his inheritance, though. I'll admit I was surprised."

"You can thank Hawke's influence for that. Hawke isn't too tolerant of overly religious types."

Varric evaluated the prisoner. Some of the wariness behind her eyes had eased as they conversed. He found himself liking her, despite his better judgment. His gut told him her story just didn't add up. Cousin to the Starkhavens? That plus the educated accent meant her family was noble, and nobles didn't just pack their children up and send them off to become lowly scribes in foreign countries. Scribes also wouldn't continually scan the treeline for an ambush, either. Something didn't smell right, and he planned to figure out what it was, at least before Cassandra could.

 

***

 "We're nearly there," Solas announced as they passed into a snowy clearing. Ahead, Iseult could see the forward camp. It was situated in the middle of a narrow valley that led in the direction of the temple—and the Breach.

They entered the camp, and Iseult saw Leliana talking animatedly to a Chantry official over a table laid out with maps and papers. Her upbringing would never be called devout, so she did not know his exact rank, but his fancy hat and the badges of office sewn to his sumptuous robes indicated his high rank—that was, his high rank for a man. Only women could attain the highest honors of Chantry priesthood, in the tradition of Andraste.

The official screwed up his face on seeing her. "Ah, here they come," he said distastefully.

Leliana, on the other hand, looked relieved. "You made it. Chancellor Roderick, this is—"

"I know who she is," he snapped. "As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution."

Icy terror crept into Iseult's chest. She had been reassured by Cassandra's brusque forthrightness, but now her natural instincts to flee resurfaced. She felt for weapons at her sides that were not there. Drawing several deep breaths, she planted her feet and faced the Chancellor directly.

Fortunately, Cassandra gave her time to compose herself. The Seeker was outraged. "Order me? You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!" she exclaimed.

"And you are a thug," Roderick fired back, "but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!"

Leliana's voice was soft and deadly. "We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know."

The Chancellor threw up his hands. "Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement, and obey _her_ orders on the matter!"

"Isn't closing the Breach the more pressing issue?" Iseult found herself acting.

 _"You_ brought this on us in the first place!" The Chancellor pointed an accusatory finger in her face. "Call a retreat, Seeker. Our position here is helpless."

Cassandra shook her head. "We can stop this before it's too late."

"How? You won't survive long enough to reach the temple, even with all your soldiers."

"We must go to the temple. It's the quickest route to the Breach."

"But not the safest," Leliana said as she pointed to the map. Looking down, Iseult saw their position roughly outlined. The valley led straight to the temple, and beyond that was the Breach. There was another path outlined there, winding through the mountains to the east of their position. It was the longer route but benefitted from the protection of the rough terrain. "Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains."

Cassandra crossed her arms. "We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It is too risky."

Roderick stamped his foot. "Listen to me. Abandon this now before more lives are lost!"

As if on cue, the rift flashed bright green sending a pulse of pain through Iseult's hand. She gasped at the suddenness of it, sheltering her left hand against her torso.

Cassandra considered her. "How do _you_ think we should proceed?"

Iseult was surprised that the Seeker would bother to ask her opinion. She pretended to study the map while she evaluated her precarious position. While Cassandra might be on her side for now, Iseult knew she could not count on the Seeker's loyalty, especially in the face of Chancellor Roderick's vehement insistence on her guilt. The valley would be crawling with soldiers. It would leave her exposed and vulnerable to their control. The mountain path, on the other hand, offered the possibility of escape, should she need it. Odds of survival in the mountains surrounding Haven were slim, unsupplied and unarmed as she was, but slim chances were better than inevitable capture and execution.

If only she could remember what happened at the Conclave.

"I say we take the mountain path," she announced at length.

Cassandra hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Leliana, bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone. Tell the Commander to mount an assault on the Temple, and let him know of our plans."

Roderick threw up his hands. "On your head be the consequences, Seeker." He turned on his heel and stalked off.

Iseult looked between Cassandra and Leliana, judging their expressions. She cleared her throat. "Ah, I think I would be of more use if I were armed—if that's all right."

Cassandra exchanged a glance with Leliana, who nodded. "Of course," the Seeker said.

"I brought your belongings from Haven," Leliana said. She ducked into a tent and came back with an armful of Iseult's things. Iseult let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. She strapped her twin daggers around her waist and thighs and then buckled on the belt that held pouches for her book and small supplies. The vambraces went over her forearms, and she tucked the remaining throwing knives into various strategic places in her clothing. Straightening, she felt immensely more confident. She might be exhausted, bruised, and overwhelmed by the events of the past days, but at least now she was armed.

"Very well," she said. "Let's go."

 

***

It took more than an hour to climb to the summit of the mountain path to the point where the trail led into a tunneled overlook. Iseult's thighs and calves burned as she struggled to keep her balance on the slippery footing. She glared at her companions, who seemed to have no issues with the climb. Of course, _they_ had not spent the past several days bound in manacles and unconscious after being hurled from a mountaintop, she thought bitterly.

The path was not so much a path as a series of ladders and platforms leading up to an old mining complex. Cassandra noted that the mountains surrounding Haven were riddled with such complexes, as at one time the region had been a major source for iron and lyrium, the magical substance that sustained the power of mages and templars. The tunnels had been largely abandoned when the Temple of Sacred Ashes was founded as a pilgrimage site. Now the Chantry's soldiers took advantage of the tunnel infrastructure to pass more easily through the mountains, which were covered in snow almost year-round.

Cassandra went first into the dark tunnel. Iseult followed close behind, blinking as her eyes adjusted from the blinding glare of snow outside to the gloom within. She stumbled forward and was stopped by the Seeker's outstretch arms.

"Be wary," Cassandra warned. "Demons ahead."

Iseult eased her twin daggers out of their sheaths and fanned out to a position that flanked the Seeker. Varric mirrored her movement, nocking a bolt. Solas followed behind. She heard the mage murmur an enchantment that created a gentle glow from the head of his staff.

She heard the demons before she saw them. It sounded like they were engaged in struggle.

"The missing squadron!" Cassandra exclaimed, rushing forward. Iseult swore; direct attack was _not_ her forte. She Seeker plummeted ahead into the fray, and Iseult hesitated only a moment before following.

The hesitation was enough time for Iseult to be cut off from the Seeker as the other woman charged through the doorway into the room where demons attacked Chantry soldiers. A wraith-like figure appeared in the doorway just as Iseult reached it, and she skidded to the side just in time to be missed by a clawed swipe. Bringing up her dagger as she regained her footing, she slashed at the figure. Not knowing where the weak points of a demon's anatomy were located, she aimed for the throat and vital organs as she would for a human enemy. Her left dagger, slashing low, passed harmlessly through the gray tatters of the demon's cloak, but her right dagger, thrusting high, caught the demon solidly in the point where its head seemed to join to its torso. The wraith screeched horribly and floated to the ground, where it was absorbed into the floor in a flash of green.

Iseult's combat instincts ignored the protest of her aching muscles, and she rolled into the room, maneuvering to get her back to a corner so she could pick her next target. The din of battle rang in her ears. Two thrown daggers blossomed in the obscured face of another wraith, and she moved to aid Cassandra.

The Seeker battled one of the tall, stick-limbed demons, using her shield to turn aside the vicious claws and thrusting forward with her sword. Then Iseult saw the floor begin to boil like black tar under the demon's feet as it _sank into the stone._ Iseult blinked in disbelief, when suddenly she was pitched forward by the floor under _her_ feet dissolving into viscous liquid. She screamed with a long-clawed hand reached up through the tar and grabbed her ankle, pulling her down.

She struggled desperately to pull her foot free as more of the demon's arm emerged from the ground. Suddenly, the arm and ground around it froze solid, covered with ice crystals. Iseult looked up to see Solas flinging blasts of ice with his staff from across the room. Looking back down at the monstrous hand frozen to her leg, she began to hack wildly at the demon's forearm. Her leg wrenched free as the demon's arm snapped in half.

"We're going to be overrun!" Varric shouted over the fray.

"Where are they coming from?" Iseult yelled.

Cassandra pointed through a doorway on the far side of the room. "There's a rift through there!"

Iseult maneuvered her way through the chaos, dodging claws and sprays of bile. At the doorway, she could _feel_ the rift through the mark in her hand. Concentrating on the way Solas had helped her close the earlier rift, she extended her left hand. The fabric of reality knitted itself back together, and the glowing gash of light winked out of existence.

The tide of battle was turned. The loss of their connection to the Fade enervated the demons, and it was not long before the remaining monsters were dead.

Cassandra, wiping her sword blade clean, addressed one of the Chantry soldiers. "What happened here?"

He stammered, either from fear of the demons or intimidation of the Seeker. "W…w…we was sent here by Sister Leliana," he choked out, "to man the tower atop the mountain and signal if there was trouble. But then the d…d…d—"

"Demons came," Cassandra finished for him. He nodded. "Well they're gone now. How many still live?"

"Just those you see here, Seeker," another soldier answered. She had regained her wits more quickly than her comrade. "There were fifteen of us starting out, and now there's just the four."

"Damn," Varric muttered.

"Thank you, Lady Cassandra," the soldier continued. "I don't think we could've held out much longer."

"Thank our prisoner," Cassandra said, surprising Iseult. "She's the one who insisted we come this way."

"The prisoner? Then you…?"

Iseult cleared her throat. "It was worth saving you, if we could." She felt it the appropriate thing to say, even if her motives for taking the mountain path had been entirely selfish.

The soldier bowed. "Then you have my sincere gratitude."

Cassandra's mouth was set in a grim line. "Now that the immediate threat is over, you are all to retreat to the forward camp. Assist them however they need. Report our location and let Leliana know we are proceeding as planned."

"Aye, Seeker." The soldier sketched a salute and helped her comrade to his feet. She turned to Iseult, "And thank you again, my lady, for…well, for whatever it was you did."

Iseult merely nodded. She was still unsure exactly what it was she had done, but she was relieved that it had worked. In the heat of battle, she had not noticed the searing pain in her arm, but it ached now.  She pushed the pain from her mind.

"We should keep moving." The sooner they got this ordeal over with, the better.

 

***

 "The Breach is a long way up," Varric said as they contemplated the great gash in the sky swirling directly above the ruined temple.

Ahead of them, a voice called out, "You're here! Thank the Maker." It was Leliana, who must have arrived with the bulk of the forces in the valley.

Cassandra wasted no time. "Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple." She turned to Iseult. "This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?"

Iseult did not feel ready at all, but she had little choice. She nodded. "I'm assuming you have a plan to get me up there?" She looked up at the vast expanse of green light.

It was Solas who replied. "No, this rift was the first." He pointed down into the ruined temple, at the center of which, directly below the Breach, was a Fade rift some twenty feet above the ground. "It is the key. Seal this rift, and perhaps we seal the Breach."

"Then let's find a way down," Cassandra said. "And be careful."

They made their way slowly to the floor of the temple, scrambling over boulders and climbing down crumbling blocks of wall. A small contingent of Chantry soldiers accompanied their party, while the Chantry's archers took up position high up on the walls in a ring around the rift.

As soon as Iseult set foot on the patterned stone of the temple floor, the rift flared causing a surge of pain through her right hand. Thunder rolled and black clouds swirled overhead, blocking out any daylight. Rising wind whipped Iseult's hair in front of her eyes and whistled shrilly in her ears. A deep voice echoed all around them.

"Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice."

"What are we hearing?" Cassandra yelled, pitching her voice to carry over the clamor.

"At a guess, the person who created the Breach," Solas shouted back.

Another voice spoke. It was a woman's voice. She had an Orlesian accent, and she sounded terrified.

"Someone, help me!"

Immediately afterward, there was a third voice.

"What's going on here?"

A chill crept down Iseult's spine as she recognized the final voice as her own.

Cassandra stared at her. "That was _your_ voice. Most Holy called out to you. But—"

The rift flashed green and lightning arced through the sky. A dark apparition formed in the center of the temple, larger than life. A glowing woman's form emerged, the silhouette of the Divine's cap intelligible on her head. Her arms were stretched taut to either side, bound with coils of glowing rope. She arched her back in horror, straining to get away from the dark figure—a shadowy and indiscernible black mass—who loomed toward her.

Light appeared, as if from a doorway, behind the dark figure. Again, Iseult heard her own voice.

"What's going on here?"

Justinia—it had to be the Divine—cried out:

"Run while you can! Warn them!"

"We have an intruder. Kill her. Now."

Cassandra rounded on Iseult, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her until her teeth rattled. "You _were_ there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?"

"I don't remember!" Iseult said, anguished.

"Echoes of what happened here," said Solas. Somehow his quiet voice carried over the chaos. "The Fade bleeds into the place. This rift is not sealed, but it is closed…albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side."

The immediacy of their need forced Cassandra to compose herself. She released Iseult and addressed the soldiers. "That means demons. Stand ready!"

Iseult climbed onto a nearby boulder to have a direct line of sight to the rift. At a nod from Cassandra, she planted her feet and braced herself. She tried to brush the rift with her power, to see how it might be done.

At that first tentative contact, however, green energy surged from the rift, drawing power from her and coiling around her arm like living vines. She fought for control even as she was overcome with searing pain. Iseult tore the rift open like slashing with a dagger through cloth. Magical energy roared through her ears and across her vision. She was only dimly aware of dark forms pouring from the rift and the sounds of pitched battle—the screams of demons and men as they fought for survival.

She wrestled with power that threatened to explode out of her control. Stitching the hole in the veil of the fabric between worlds was difficult. Too many threads connected the demons to the other side. At first, it was impossible. Iseult could only try to maintain control, cold sweat pouring down her body and her outstretched arm quivering from the strain. As each demon died, however, their thread was cut, and she was able to stitch a little more of the veil back together.

She could not say how long it took—it seemed hours or days—that she stood on the rock forcing the world back together. At last, only one demon remained. A monstrosity—huge and horned—it fought like a frenzied bull. Finally, Cassandra dealt it a lethal blow and its life-thread snapped. Before more demons could emerge, Iseult sewed up the last bit of fabric.

As she released her power, the Breach in the sky boomed. The world exploded around her in a maelstrom of green light, and she knew no more.


	2. Hope Dies, Mistrust Blossoms, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana discovers that the Herald of Andraste is not who she claims to be, but her unconventional skill set comes in handy during a visit from a party of Orlesian nobles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this chapter is super long, per AO3's word limits, so I've split it into two chapters.

She woke in a strange bed, groggy and disoriented. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Iseult eased herself into a sitting position and drew the deep blue coverlet up to her chest. Someone had undressed her and there was a strong medicinal smell to the room.

The room was simple and rustic, with rough-planked walls and no windows, so that Iseult could not tell whether it was night or day. The floor was bare like the walls and made of the same rough planking. A fire burned in the hearth, and next to it was a stand with a washing pitcher, clean cloths, and several small vials of varying substances. On the opposite wall there was a door flanked by built-in shelves on which sat a number of domestic items.

Moving slowly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Just as her bare foot touched the floor, the door of the room flung open causing her to jump.

A young elf entered, and on seeing Iseult awake, dropped the chest she had been carrying to the ground where it collided with a resounding crack.

"Oh! I didn't know you were awake, I swear!" the young woman cried.

All the sudden noise caused Iseult's head to ache. "Don't worry about it. I only—"

She was cut off as the young elf threw herself to her knees and bowed low in abeyance. "I beg your forgiveness and blessing. I am but a humble servant. You are back in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It's all anyone has talked about for the last three days."

She'd been unconscious three days. Iseult paused as the thought sank in. Finally, she asked, "So what happens now?"

The young woman's mouth made an 'O' and she sprang to her feet turning to grasp for the door handle. "I'm certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you've wakened. She said, 'At once.'"

Iseult rubbed her temples. "Where is she?"

"In the Chantry, with the Lord Chancellor." The elf turned and opened the door. "'At once,' she said." In the blink of an eye, the young elf was gone.

Iseult sighed. "At once" would have to wait until she had made herself presentable. She rose from the bed and tip-toed over to the wash basin. The pitcher's water was clean but icy cold. Iseult set it near the fire as she inspected the room for her belongings.

Her daggers, boots, and belt pouch contents were tucked in a chest at the end of her bed, but there was no sign of her clothes. Her journal, too, was missing, which worried her. She knelt down to open the chest the elf woman had brought in. There was a well-worn homespun robe and pair of stockings, both in wool.

She washed briskly—the fire had done little to warm the water—and lacking a brush combed her hair with her fingers and worked it into a braid. She pulled on the robe and stockings which fit her poorly but were at least very warm. Over the stockings she laced her boots.

She was about to leave the room when thinking better of it, she returned to the chest and tucked her daggers into her boottops. Her dagger belt wouldn't fit over the robe, but she would feel more secure if she were armed.

Hoping she looked somewhat presentable, she opened the door and stepped out into the bright morning light. Immediately she had to fight the urge not to run back inside. A crowd had gathered in the time it had taken her to dress. They had assembled on either side of the path leading from her doorstep up to the Chantry, and in front of them stood armed guards stationed at intervals throughout.

Haven, the last stop on the pilgrim's path to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, had once been a tiny hamlet. Now the walls of the town seemed fit to bursting. Crammed between humble peasant houses was a patchwork of tents of all sizes and shapes. If many of Haven's people had turned out to see her emerge from her room, many people still went about their daily lives. The air rang with bustling activities—an anvil clanged in the smithy, women sang as they scrubbed and hung laundry to dry, a stout cook with a ladle haggled with a man with a wagonload of salted fish. Those at the Conclave had mostly been nobles or Chantry officials and their retinues. These people were mostly peasants. She wondered if they had been displaced by the explosion at the Conclave.

A murmur rippled through the throng as she stepped out. As she progressed slowly along the path, several people knelt and tried to kiss the hem of her robe, only to be turned aside by the guards. Others stretched out their hands and entreated her for her blessing. For each reverent, however, there were two more people who looked on at her stonily.

She was able to catch snippets of conversations as she walked toward the Chantry building.

"That's her," a man's voice said. "That's the Herald of Andraste."

"Hush," a woman's voice chided. "You shouldn't disturb her."

A guard bowed as she passed, thanking her for saving them.

"That's her," someone said. "She stopped the Breach from getting any bigger."

"I heard she was supposed to close it entirely."

She moved in a daze. The Herald of Andraste? What could that possibly mean?

Two guards opened the doors to the Haven's small Chantry to allow her passage. She stepped into the darkened interior grateful to be away from the mass of people. The nave was filled with lit candles and a few postulants knelt in prayer at the altar. They turned toward her, spreading their arms in reverent silence as she passed.

At the opposite end of the Chantry, Iseult could hear shouting from behind a closed door.

"Have you gone completely mad? She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whomever becomes Divine!" Iseult recognized the voice as belonging to Chancellor Roderick. This was clearly where she was meant to be going. She drew a deep breath and pushed open the door.

The first thing she noticed in the warmly lit room was the massive table in the center spread with maps, markers, and pieces of parchment. She scanned the back walls. There was a door in either corner, but they seemed to lead farther back into the Chantry. The only way out was the way she had entered. A tapestry hung between the doors, depicting a standard Andrastian motif. In addition to the two guards on either side of the door, five people stood around the table.

The blustering Chancellor Roderick was immediately to her left, face red. Cassandra faced him scowling with her arms crossed over her chest. Leliana hung back in the shadows behind the Seeker.

Directly opposite the door, on the far side of the table, stood a man Iseult had not seen before. He was tall and handsome with tawny hair and a scar over one side of his lip. He wore a long fur-trimmed robe over a gleaming breastplate, and a sword was belted to his hip. By his coloring and garb, she guessed he was from Fereldan. Hands spread wide as he leaned on the table, he looked up at her sudden entry.

To the man's left was a dark-haired, dusky-skinned woman holding a writing board in her left arm and a feathered quill in her right hand. Her dress was elegant—dark brocade over a full-sleeved blouse of gold samite—and her hair was neatly coiffed. Iseult recognized the crest on the heavy chains of office she wore around her neck as belonging to House Montilyet of Antiva.

All these things she noticed in the shocked silence of her entry as her gaze swept over the room. Chancellor Roderick was the first to recover himself.

"Chain her!" he demanded, advancing on Iseult and pointing accusatorily. Her hands dropped reflexively to her hips, groping for her customary daggers. Remembering they were in her boots and not daring to draw them, she clenched her fists. "I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial."

Cassandra waved her hand dismissively. "Disregard that, and leave us." The two guards on either side of the door bowed and left in silence. Iseult stepped warily into the room, skirting away from the Chancellor.

"You walk a dangerous line, Seeker." Roderick glared at her.

"The Breach is stable but still a threat. I will not ignore it."

Leliana spoke. "The Herald did what she could to close the Breach. The healers say it nearly killed her."

"Yet she lives," Roderick sneered. "A convenient result, insofar as you're concerned."

"Have a care, Chancellor," Cassandra warned him. "The Breach is not the only threat we face."

Leliana nodded. "Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others—or have allies who yet live."

_"I_ am suspect?!" The Chancellor was genuinely shocked.

"You, and many others," Leliana confirmed as she stepped forward into the light.

"But _not_ the prisoner."

"I heard the voices in the temple. The Divine called to her for help," said Cassandra.

Roderick shook his head. "So her survival, that _thing_ on her hand—all a coincidence?"

"Providence," the Seeker corrected. "The Maker sent her to us in this darkest hour."

Iseult moved to protest, but Cassandra cut her off. "We lost everything," she said. "Then, out of nowhere, you came."

"The Breach remains, and the Herald's mark is still our only hope of closing it," Leliana pointed out.

But Roderick would not be swayed. "This is _not_ for you to decide."

Cassandra turned and left the room through one of the back doors. She returned shortly carrying a weighty tome. She slammed the book down on the table and stepped back, pointing. "You know what this is, Chancellor. A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn. We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order, with or without your approval."

With each point, she advanced a step toward Roderick, and the Chancellor retreated until finally he stood in the door frame. Cassandra shut the door in his face.

"Thought we'd never be rid of him," the armored man muttered under his breath. Iseult suddenly realized that he must be the Commander who Cassandra had mentioned when they were in the valley. Cullen, she thought his name was.

"This is the Divine's directive," Leliana intoned, turning to address the others in the room. "Rebuild the Inquisition or old. Find those who will stand against the chaos. We aren't ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support."

"But we have no choice," the Seeker sighed. "We must act now."

The dark woman to Iseult's right cleared her throat. "Perhaps now would be the time for introductions?" She nodded in Iseult's direction.

"Of course," Cassandra said. "May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition's forces."

"Such as they are," he said in a deprecating tone. "We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through."

The Seeker then gestured to the dark-haired woman. "This Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat."

The Lady Montilyet inclined her head cordially. "I've heard much. It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

"And of course you know Sister Leliana."

"My position here involves a degree of—"

Cassandra interrupted her. "She is our spymaster."

Leliana sighed. "Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra."

They looked at her expectantly. Iseult cleared her throat, searching for a reply. Between the Conclave, her imprisonment, and waking up in this strange, small village where the people seemed to worship her for the frightening mark on her hand, Iseult had had no time to formulate an explanation for her presence at Haven.

Her backstory as a scribe would not hold up under scrutiny, especially now that her fighting skills and noble birth had been revealed. She knew someone here had her belongings; on the off-chance they could decipher her journal, she would certainly be damned. Any whiff of her true purpose at the Conclave, and Iseult was sure that Cassandra, who had defended her from Chancellor Roderick only moments before, would lock her in chains.

She settled for vague politeness, falling back on her noble upbringing. "Pleasure to meet you all," she said, eyes downcast.

"You are a Trevelyan, are you not?" Josephine asked. She checked a page in the folder she carried. "Lady Iseult Sabeline Ro—"

"Iseult is fine," she cut the other woman off. "And yes, that's me."

"You're the daughter of Bann Marcel Trevelyan of Ostwick and Lady Beatriz Trevelyan neé Vael of Starkhaven?"

"Ah, yes." She cleared her throat. "You have my whole pedigree there, I see."

"What's a Free Marcher noble doing as a scribe in Orlais?" the Commander asked. His eyes narrowed as he considered her.

"I'm the youngest child, and I didn't fancy an arranged marriage. My parents thought coming to Orlais would be a good opportunity. I studied at the University in Val Royeaux. Being a scribe seemed to make sense, and it lets me travel."

It was all _technically_ true, if it obscured the truth entirely. Iseult was careful to keep her expression neutral. She sensed rather than saw the spymaster considering the veracity of her story. Leliana, however, remained silent.

"Um," she continued, changing the subject to avoid further questioning. "Chancellor Roderick seemed upset by me. And there were all of these people gathered outside…" She allowed her voice to trail off, adding a quaver of uncertainty at the end. It was not difficult to feign, as her confusion about her circumstances was quite real.

"Yes," Josephine said. "The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition—and you, specifically."

"Why would the Chantry care about me?"

"Some are calling you the 'Herald of Andraste.' That frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you."

"Chancellor Roderick's doing, no doubt," Cassandra added in a derisive tone.

Josephine's lips compressed into a thin line. "It limits our options considerably."

Iseult frowned. "Just how am _I_ the Herald of Andraste?"

Cassandra answered her. "People saw what you did at the temple. How you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste."

Leliana said, "Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading—"

"Which we have not," Cassandra interrupted.

Leliana scowled at the Seeker and continued in a huffy tone, "The point is, everyone is talking about you."

Iseult considered this. It certainly explained the behavior of the villagers. "That's…a little unsettling," she admitted.

Culen nodded. "I'm sure the Chantry would agree."

"People are desperate for a sign of hope," Leliana said. "For some, you're that sign."

Josephine continued. "And to others, a symbol of everything that's gone wrong."

"So I'm the problem?"

The Commander shrugged dismissively. "Let's be honest. They would have censured us no matter what."

Cassandra nodded and looked pointedly at her marked hand. "And you not being here isn't an option."

 

***

 

The next several days were busy for everyone. Leliana spent her days orchestrating her small but strategic network of spies, receiving news from Val Royeaux and further afield. Unrest fomented in the Chantry. The clerics of Val Royeaux expressed their disapproval at the formation of the Inquisition, but the clerics still lacked a unified voice to oppose them.

Violence between the Templars who had fractured from the Order and the Mages fleeing the broken Circles grew steadily. In the Fereldan hinterlands, the lowland area stretching between Haven and Lake Calenhad, the violence had displaced many villagers as their homes and farms were invaded by those bent on destruction and chaos.

A few of the refugees found their way to Haven. Some were eager to join the Inquisition because they sought to restore order to their ways of life. Others merely sought food and a warm spot by the fire. Eventually, everyone was put to work.

Their military forces were still pitifully small, but under Cullen's direction, they were organized and well-trained. The Commander had been appointed at Cassandra's recommendation, and Leliana was well-pleased with the choice. He was still reserved around all of them, but after what he had witnessed at Kirkwall, Leliana could sympathize.

Josephine kept the camp running smoothly, though response to her requests for noble support were slow in coming. It was not the Ambassador's fault, truly. The nobility of Fereldan and Orlais were waiting to see how the balance of power fell before committing. At this stage, they could only hope for the support of minor lords and ladies—those who had nothing to lose, but little to offer—seeking to ride the Inquisition's coattails to fortune. As a result, their coffers were nearly empty.

Cassandra was chafing at the inaction. She could usually be found destroying target dummies—or bruising her sparring partners. The Seeker was a woman of action and ill-suited to clerical work. They would have to find something for her soon or she would drive them all crazy.

And then there was the Herald. She was clearly hiding much about her past and her purpose for being at the Conclave. Leliana had spent many fruitless hours trying to decipher the journal found among Iseult's possessions. It was clearly not written in cipher but in another language that Leliana did not know. There was no one she trusted enough to ask about it.

The journal did, however, contain many diagrams and maps of buildings and various locations throughout Orlais. Among the last pages were sketches of the Conclave and the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Acting on a hunch, she had given Iseult's description to her spies in Val Royeaux to see what they might find.

This morning, a raven had come. The contents of the note it carried were the reason she had called the Inner Circle to convene.

They stood in their customary ring around the central table. The Commander leaned forward, considering troop movements. Josephine tallied sheets of parchment with a feathered quill in one hand. Cassandra stalked at the far end of the table.

The Seeker broke first. "What's this about, Leliana?"

"You will see. We are waiting on one more."

Presently, there was a quiet knock on the door. It swung open, and the Herald tiptoed into the room.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes," Leliana confirmed. "Come in, Lady Trevelyan."

The Herald tensed at the formality and scanned the room. A reflexive search for exits, Leliana knew. She had the same instincts from years of training as an Orlesian bard.

Leliana drew a breath. No sense in dragging this out. She turned to the members of the Inquisition's council. "It seems our Herald wasn't the innocent bystander at the Conclave she claimed to be," she announced.

The Commander's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

Leliana turned to address Iseult. "Your master, Barquiel Mourrier, is dead."

The shock on the other woman's face was unfeigned. "I—what—how?" She stopped, closing her eyes and swallowing. "How did he die?"

"My spies report he died of a lingering illness that he'd had for some years now."

Iseult's eyes were wide and frantic, lashes fluttering. Leliana detected a tremor in her hands. "Did anyone actually _see_ it? Were their witnesses who actually saw his body being burned?"

Leliana frowned in surprise. "Of course, I instructed my spies to attend the funeral—"

Iseult's eyes rolled white in her head, and she crumpled to the floor.

Leliana looked around the room, stunned. "Well, I didn't expect _that_."

 

***

 

Josephine was the first to break the shocked silence. "Well, someone get a chair!"

The stillness broken, Cassandra fled to obey. Leliana moved to kneel by the Herald, testing her pulse at her throat and patting her cheeks.

Cullen strode around the table, looking down at the unconscious woman on the floor. His hands were balled into fists and his jaw clenched.

Cassandra returned with one of the wooden chairs from Leliana's office. "Who is this Barquiel Mourrier?" the Seeker asked as they hauled Iseult into a sitting position.

Leliana's answer made an icy knot form in the pit of his stomach. "One of the greatest spymasters in Orlais. We have—had—something of a rivalry. It seems that our Herald has been working for him for nearly a decade."

From somewhere, Josephine produced a small vial of pungent liquid. She wafted it under the Herald's nose. With a start, Iseult woke up. She looked up at them, dazed.

"That's better," Leliana said as she sat back on her heels. "Now then, why don't you tell us exactly why you were at the Conclave?"

Iseult's hands trembled as she tried to push herself more upright. Lacking the strength, she moved them to her lap and clasped one over the other. Eyes downcast, she said, "I _was_ a scribe for Marquis Durellion. I was planted in Durellion's household some months ago, with instructions to make myself invaluable to him. Mourrier knew he would be invited to the Conclave. Once there, I was to enter the temple—I had specific instructions to wait _outside_ the room—and observe who entered, who left, and what happened from as far as I could tell."

Something broke in Cullen as she spoke. They had defended this woman in the face of the Chantry's ire. They had directly disobeyed orders to bring her in for a trial on the faith that there was some higher purpose to her survival of the Conclave. Her actions in the valley and in closing the Breach—had it _all_ been an act? "So this whole time you've just been a _spy_?!" he bellowed.

On his heels, Cassandra loosed a flurry of questions. "So you _do_ know what happened! I believed you! What happened to the Divine?"

Iseult's eyes darted back and forth between them. "I told the truth about not remembering. The night before the Conclave, I snuck into the temple and hid in the eaves just outside the meeting chamber. I remember watching the Divine and her party enter the room—and that's all."

"You're _lying,_ "Cassandra hissed.

Cullen pounded a gauntleted fist on the table causing the troop markers to shake and topple.

To his surprise, Leliana was thoughtful. "You never made your report to Mourrier," she said. "I've given you ample opportunity."

Iseult blinked at her and shook her head slightly. "My parents gave me to Mourrier to be apprenticed when I was fifteen years old. When I completed my training at eighteen, I was to serve Mourrier for three years as his agent before returning to my family. When my three years were ended, it was clear he would never let me go alive. Since that day, I've been trying to escape him.

"I thought…I thought either he would think I died in the blast, or if somehow he found out I was alive and people were calling me the Herald of Andraste, he would think I'd taken initiative to find out more."

Josephine gasped softly, but Cullen was unmoved. "And what's to say that's not exactly what you're doing? How can we believe anything you say?"

"I believe her," Leliana whispered.

"What?" Cullen exclaimed.

" _You_ called us here, Leliana," Cassandra said. "What was your purpose, if not to expose the Her— _Trevelyan_ for what she is?"

Leliana shrugged. "I already knew what she was. I just wanted to know why. I am satisfied with her answer."

Cullen could not believe what he was hearing. "So we should just continue as we have before? With a _viper_ in our midst?"

Iseult winced at the acid in his voice.

"The fact remains that she is marked, and so far as we know, that is the only way to close the Breach," Leliana reasoned. "We could clap her in irons and throw her in the dungeon until then, but that seems a waste of her talent. If I know anything of Mourrier, her training is impeccable. I set guards and spies to watch the Conclave myself, and none of them reported her presence. I say we use her."

Iseult surged to her feet, toppling the chair and crouching in a fighting stance. She snarled like a feral animal. Cullen's sword was half out of its sheath before he realized that he had moved. "I would rather rot in prison than let you make me a slave! I never agreed serve Mourrier. He held me against my will for _ten years._ "

Leliana remained calm, crossing her arms under her breasts. "You lived in a fine house. You would have had the best training and education, fine clothes, anything you wanted. By my reports, you were quite special to him."

"A gilded cage is still a cage, Sister _Nightingale_. Mourrier used me as he pleased. I could not leave the house without his express permission, and then I was tailed by his agents. If I displeased him, I was whipped and beaten. I would have fled long ago if I knew he wouldn't track me down and kill me."

Josephine gasped. "That is _terrible_. Is it true, Leliana?"

The spymaster nodded. "My agents interviewed some of Mourrier's household staff. If anything, she is understating the truth."

Cullen let his sword drop back into its scabbard. Beside him, Cassandra heaved a sigh.

"Do you _want_ to stay with the Inquisition?" the Seeker asked.

Iseult's laugh was bitter. "I have little choice. If I don't help you, this mark will kill me." She regarded the palm of her left hand. In a softer tone she added, "I have been well-treated here, and the people have been kind to me. And I think you are trying to do the right thing restoring order and closing the Breach." She sighed and closed her eyes, resigned. "I am…content to stay and help as I can. But I will not be coerced."

"That's settled, then," Leliana said briskly. "And just in time. It seems there is a Revered Mother—Mother Giselle—in the hinterlands near Redcliffe who would like to meet you."

 

***

 

The impending arrival of a party of Orlesian nobles delayed their excursion. It seemed they were desirous to meet the Herald of Andraste and take the Inquisition's measure. As a result, Iseult had been summoned to the council to discuss preparations.

Iseult approached the Chantry anxiously. Since the revelation of her association with Mourrier, she had avoided most of the council members—especially the Commander and Seeker Cassandra. Cassandra only glared at her whenever she passed, while the Commander's face went taut and he refused to meet her gaze.

In contrast, the people of Haven—unaware as they were of what had transpired—continued to revere her. She had been showered with homely gifts. Most of these she distributed among the refugees, but some of the clothes and personal effects she had kept for herself. There had been a pair of combs, finely carved from dark wood, for her hair. Two of the women had taken it upon themselves to sew some new clothes for her. She now wore a simple cream colored tunic and black leggings that laced up the side. A pale green coat of fine wool went over these, cinched at the waist by her wide black dagger belt. One elf woman—a refugee—had gifted her with a beautiful scarf embroidered with Dalish patterns in cream, pale green, and jade. It had surely been an heirloom, and Iseult had tried to refuse the precious gift, but the woman had insisted. Iseult now wore it like a hood with her long braid pulled over one shoulder.

Despite their own hardships, the villagers tried to make her life as easy as possible. She always had clean linens on her bed, and there was often a hot bowl of food and bread for her at any campfire. She might return to her room to find her clothes washed or her socks darned, never knowing the names of her silent benefactors. The children of Haven, less reserved than their parents about socializing with a holy figure, brought her flowers and showed her their toys.

Yet, regardless of these daily kindnesses, she felt terribly alone.

It had taken her several days to accept the news of Mourrier's death, despite having yearned for her freedom for so long. She still had an anxious feeling that it was all an illusion—that he might ride over the horizon at any moment to drag her back to Val Royeaux. The thought made her pulse race in her throat. She forced her breathing to slow, inhaling and exhaling with deliberation. The other day in the council was the first time she had ever fainted in her life, and she was in no hurry to relive that mortification.

The darkness of the Chantry was intensified by the blinding snow of Haven, so it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. She heard voices coming through the shut door at the end of the nave. The council were already assembled, it seemed. Out of habit, she silenced her footsteps and moved into the darkness, cocking her head to better distinguish their conversation.

A man's voice—the Commander's—dominated. "Are we really going to continue the farce that Trevelyan is somehow the Herald of Andraste? It's bad enough that we're letting a spy circulate unchecked in our midst, but to continue to deceive people—"

"These nobles want to see the Herald. They will not lend us their support if we suddenly claim the Herald was all a mistake. At best, we look incompetent; at worst, we are blasphemers and liars. We will, however, need to agree on an official stance about whether the Herald is a holy figure." That was pragmatic Josephine.

"She might be a holy figure," suggested Leliana, to Iseult's surprise. Cullen scoffed loudly. "What? Do _you_ claim to know how the Maker works?"

"Much as I dislike admitting it," Cassandra said, "I agree with Sister Leliana. In our darkest hour—in the face of the world being torn apart by the Breach—we received a solution. She may not be…conventional, but neither was Andraste herself."

Iseult was not sure which unnerved her more, Cullen's open hostility or the fact that, despite everything, Leliana and Cassandra were seriously considering that she might have somehow been sent by the Maker. Between hostility and divinity, she decided the former was easier to stomach.

"Do as you like," Cullen sighed. "But I don't like her wandering around camp—"

Having heard enough, Iseult gave a resounding knock on the door. The room fell silent, and then Leliana called, "Come in."

Iseult stepped into the room. She noted the abashed expression on the Commander's face and wondered if he suspected that she had overheard his words. Well, let him wonder, she thought.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes," said Josephine. "Please sit."

Instead of the usual standing arrangement, several chairs had been arranged in a semicircle in front of the war table. Declining to sit, the Commander paced back and forth behind the table like a restless lion.

Iseult warily took a seat between Josephine and Leliana.

"As you know," the ambassador continued, "we are expecting a small party of nobility from Val Royeaux who are anxious to meet you."

"And you want to make sure that I present myself in accordance with the Inquisition's portrayal of me?" Iseult asked acidly, raising an eyebrow.

Her expression caused Josephine to stammer. "Well…yes. We want to present you in the best possible light. Your noble birth helps of course—"

"Of course it does," Cullen muttered. Josephine shot him a withering look.

"—Of course," she repeated. "And you are presumably well-versed in Orlesian society, having resided there for some time."

"I know which fork to use at dinner and the difference between a pomander and potpourri, if that's what you mean," Iseult confirmed. She shifted in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. "What, exactly, is the Inquisition's stance on this whole Herald business, so I know what to expect?"

Cassandra cleared her throat. "We haven't agreed on that yet."

"What do you think?" the Commander asked. His tone was very nearly polite, surprising Iseult.

"I can't really say. I saw the silhouette of a woman before I fell, but I don't know if it was Andraste, or Divine Justinia, or a demon from the Fade, or someone else entirely. And I certainly can't explain this." She held up her marked hand. "I'll play along with whatever you decide."

"Thank you," said Leliana. "That's really all we can ask of you." She was so gracious about it that Iseult almost regretted her brusque words.

"Very well," said Josephine, marking something in her ledger. "The nobles will bring their own tents to sleep in, thank goodness. All that remains is to arrange a dinner and activities for our guests. I suppose we must set up the table in the Vestry—"

"Must we go over this again, Josie?" Leliana asked. "We've been discussing the details for hours."

"Everything is wholly unsuitable!" the ambassador exclaimed. "We have no plate, no facilities, no décor. There are no musicians or other forms of entertainment. We don't even have serving trays for the hors d'oeuvres!"

"Maker forefend!" Cullen mumbled sarcastically. Josephine glared at him. Iseult was beginning to detect a pattern.

She cleared her throat.

"Do you have a suggestion, Iseult?" Leliana asked.

"You can't try and make Haven into Val Royeaux. Anything you attempt—even if you had all of the trappings of aristocracy—you would only ever create a pale imitation."

"I am aware of that, but—" Josephine interjected.

" _But_ ," Iseult continued, "Haven has charms of its own. Let the lords and ladies of Val Royeaux have a more rustic experience."

"Yes!" Leliana agreed at once. "We could have a picnic—let them gather flowers and have some of the shepherds play pipes.  They will adore the novelty."

"Precisely," Iseult said. "Haven is beautifully situated. You should show it off for what it is."

"Truly?" Josephine was incredulous. "I find the accommodations rather…lacking, myself. Perhaps if some of the rough edges were smoothed over—" She mused on this, brushing her feathered quill over pursed lips. "Yes, yes, I'll have to make some additional arrangements, but that is easily done." She trailed off, making excited comments as she scribbled in her ledger.

Leliana leaned over to whisper in Iseult's ear. "Well done." At least she had one person on her side. 

 


	3. Hope Dies, Mistrust Blossoms, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana discovers that the Herald of Andraste is not who she claims to be, but her unconventional skill set comes in handy during a visit from a party of Orlesian nobles.

Cullen rubbed his temples in a vain attempt to soothe his headache. The prospect of having to make inane small-talk with nobles all evening did not help his dark mood.

He stood in front of the mirror that hung in his small room at the back of the Chantry. It had room for a cot, desk, and washstand, plus shelves on the walls for his volumes on history and military strategy. Stacks of papers littered his desk and floor. Ordinarily a fastidious person, the lack of organization forced by the cramped space grated on his nerves.

In addition, he had not been sleeping well. Dark circles under his eyes and lines of exhaustion made him look older than he was. He had tried to shave the three-day growth of stubble, but his hands were shaking too badly to steady the razor. Well, if the nobles cared about that, they could go to the Void.

His lyrium withdrawal symptoms were growing worse. He had stopped taking the drug after leaving the Templar Order to join the Inquisition. For the first few months, he had simply missed the habit of it, the surge of power that flooded his veins after each dose, and its seductive crackle of energy.

Now the negative effects wore on him. Nightmares plagued him in his sleep, while during the day his hands shook and his head ached. There were some days he could barely stumble back to his room before collapsing on his cot after training the soldiers.

It did not help that the Inquisition was struggling to gain momentum. They were out of funds, they lacked any kind of legitimizing support, and the Breach threatened to disintegrate the fabric of the world. To top it all off, the one person who had the ability to do something about the Breach was an untrustworthy spy.

Cullen was not sure why Trevelyan upset him so much. After all, Leliana was a spymaster, and Varric managed his own network. He liked both of them well enough. The Inquisition's spies were a vital part of their organization. It could not simply be because she was a spy.

No, he considered, it was the fact that for a brief moment, for the first time since the aftermath of Kirkwall when the structure of his world had been torn down, he had allowed himself to hope. He had wanted to believe the rumors of a Herald, sent by Andraste to save them. He had wanted to believe that some force would be capable of restoring order to Thedas.

Yet, Trevelyan was merely a mortal who had been caught up in circumstances beyond her control. She was flawed. She was also a noble, which did not endear her to him; he disliked the nobility on principle.

If he followed his train of thought to its logical conclusion, perhaps he had been too hard on her. Perhaps he was only weary, and—

A knock at the door interrupted his brooding contemplation. "They're here, Cullen." Leliana's voice carried through the door.

"Wonderful," he muttered as he raked his hands through his hair. It was getting long. He could detect a slight curl forming at the nape of his neck. Steeling himself, he opened the door and stepped out to meet the nobles.

Josephine had arranged the Vestry to resemble a country tavern, with a long table in the center and benches on either side. Torches lit the walls instead of the usual lanterns, and Maryden the bard was strumming a jaunty tune on her lute in one corner. Some of the nobles had already arrived. A man and woman, both wearing Orlesian masks, tittered in a corner. They were gleeful about the "rustic charms" of Haven. Cullen rolled his eyes. At least Trevelyan's idea had worked.

As though he had summoned her by a thought, the Herald entered on the arm of one of the other nobles. She wore a simple gown in dark blue wool that showed off her height and attractive figure, neither of which Cullen had noticed before. Her dark hair, unbound and curling about her shoulders, was wreathed with a crown of pale blue flowers. No doubt the silver-masked lordling had gathered them for her during their picnic earlier that day. He swallowed and looked away as the young Orlesian escorted her to a place at the table, sitting down close at her side.

Josephine entered with two more Orlesian women. They were talking about the latest fashions in handkerchiefs, or something equally ridiculous.

Leliana suddenly appeared at his elbow. "Smile, Commander," she urged. "You look like a bear about to chew off its own foot."

He heaved a sigh and sat down at the table between Leliana and one of the Orlesian women. He was across from the Herald and the young Orlesian man, whose attentions were growing more persistent as he leaned close to whisper something in her ear.

The noblewoman to his left asked him inane questions to which he responded with brief civility. She repeatedly placed her hand on his forearm, which annoyed him. He was relieved when one of the kitchen staff came to pour the wine.

They started with the Herald and her companion. The wine bearer had not served the next two people before she picked up her glass and swirled the contents under her nose. Then she took a dainty sip. Cullen was surprised, since even  _he_  knew it was bad manners to drink before the entire table was served.

He was even more surprised when she spat the wine back in to her glass and rose from the table.

"Don't drink the wine!" she exclaimed as she began running in the direction of the kitchen.

The Orlesians collectively protested in confusion. Leliana snatched the decanter from the server.

"What are you doing?" Cullen hissed.

"Making sure it's not just her cup that was poisoned." She dipped her little finger into the decanter and tasted a drop, which she promptly spat on the floor. "Copperleaf. It's deadly."

The words were hardly out of her mouth before Cullen bolted toward the door. Leliana followed immediately behind him, shouting at Josephine to send for a healer.

When they arrived, the kitchen was in an uproar. "What's going on?" one of the cooks shouted as they rushed past and descended the steps into the wine cellar. The body of a young man lay on the ground. Iseult knelt above him, fingers feeling for a pulse at his throat.

She swore viciously. The lad had paid a heavy price for sneaking a forbidden taste of the wine. "We're too late. Who else was served this wine tonight?" she demanded of a timid page who lurked into the doorway to the cellar.

"J-just some of the officers."

"We must hurry," Iseult said, hiking her skirts and sprinting past Cullen and Leliana before either could react.

Pandemonium had already erupted in the officers' barracks when they burst through the door. One man, a lieutenant named Dalton, lay inert on the ground. Another man, Captain Marland le Bras, writhed on his back in agony. His hands groped at his throat—he could not breathe—and his lips were distended and blue.

Iseult knelt swiftly beside the captain. "Help me get him upright."

Leliana said, "The healers will be here soon."

"No time," Iseult said. Cullen and another soldier hauled Le Bras to his knees. Without hesitation, Iseult forced his swollen lips apart and jammed her fingers down his throat. He retched, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the Herald. He coughed and sputtered, but his breathing gradually stabilized.

In the meantime, Leliana had checked Dalton. She shook her head. Two dead then, thought Cullen.

"We must know who did this," he said.

Iseult nodded. "More of the barrels might have been tainted."

The healers arrived shortly thereafter, and Cullen, Leliana, and Iseult left the captain—who was shaky but cogent—in their care as the three of them returned to the wine cellar. Iseult took quick stock of the situation.

"I'll need a pen and paper. Leliana, can you find me…" she tallied the number of barrels stored in the room, "five of your people who can taste for poison? That way each person will taste ten casks and each cask will be checked twice." The spymaster nodded and ascended the stairs.

"You there!" the Herald called up to the kitchens. The timid page returned, trembling. "Who inspected this shipment? Where are the kitchen ledgers? I'll need to speak to whoever is in charge." The page squeaked and darted off.

"Who do you think could have done this?" Cullen asked.

Iseult began pacing back and forth. "There are three options, which we'll have to narrow down," she began without hesitation. Her assertiveness now, in the face of crisis, was a far cry from the diffident noblewoman Cullen had first taken her for. "We can't know about this cask for certain, but if other casks are poisoned and their wax sealings are still intact, we can hopefully narrow it down to a particular vineyard. If someone tampered with the seals, it could have been done  _en route_  or by someone here in camp. We may be able to group them by shipment if the ledgers—ah!"

Cullen turned to see what had caught her attention. The Inquisition's cook had arrived. He stood at the top of the cellar stairs, dry-washing his hands and licking his lips nervously. The cook—Cullen could not recall his name—was a lanky, sinewy man with a mean expression on his pinched face. Josephine arrived behind him.

"Good, you're here. Where are the ledgers for wine the shipments?" Iseult asked.

"We, ah, we ain't got no ledgers…ah, my lady," he added the last belatedly, as if suddenly remembering his manners.

Cullen scowled at him, and the man took a half step back. "What do you mean? There was surely a shipping inventory, and someone had to receive this shipment and check that the items were correct."

The cook wrung his hands. "We get wagonloads of supplies every day. It's impossible to check 'em all, and still get me other work done!" His eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, and he registered their displeasure. "But, ah, maybe Mistress Bert would know. She's me second-in-command."

"Bring here here then. At once!" Cullen barked.

"He should be fired for this," Iseult muttered. "Anything could slip in."

"Or we could be being cheated by the merchants," said Josephine as she descended the stairs. "This is my fault. I should have kept better watch."

"I'll have some soldiers posted on the kitchens to make sure he doesn't go anywhere. We should really secure all of Haven in case the culprit is still here," Cullen said.

Iseult nodded her agreement. "Good idea. We've caused quite an uproar. If the culprit is here, they'll have been tipped that their plan to assassinate the Inquisition's leadership has failed."

At that point, Leliana arrived with some sheaves of blank parchment, writing instruments, and several people in tow.

"Right," said Iseult, taking the writing utensils from Leliana. "Let's get to work. You two," she pointed at two of the agents, "start bringing the casks and sorting them by vineyard."

Josephine leaned in toward the Herald. "Iseult, your  _dress…_ are you sure you don't want to change first?" She gestured to the vomit stain that covered Iseult's lap.

"Void take the dress," she scoffed. "It's only vomit. I want to catch this bastard. Cullen, I'd get Haven locked down right away. Leliana, can you set your people up to watch comings and goings within the camp?"

"Of course," the spymaster said. "Let me know what you find." Cullen also nodded his agreement and departed after Leliana.

It was only after he had gone outside and issued a series of rapid orders to his men that he realized that he—and all of them, really—had obeyed the Herald's orders without question. She had responded to the crisis rationally and without hesitation. Perhaps he did not need to lose all of his hope after all.

 

***

 

Later, Cullen met with the Herald and the other council members to discuss their strategy for securing the camp. There was also a barrel-shaped woman with forearms shaped like small hams that Cullen did not recognize.

"Did you find anything?" Leliana asked Iseult.

"Four barrels poisoned out of the lot. One of your men didn't detect the poison in time, and he's had a mild reaction. The four poisoned casks had been opened and resealed. Three are from the same vineyard, but Mistress Thistle Bert here has something to say."

The woman curtsied ungracefully at all of them, not sure whom to address. She held a thick book in her hand, turned open to a page filled with cramped writing and columns of figures. "Yes, my lady. All four casks were part of the same shipment. They arrived with the merchants who came with Baronet Travere's party. "

"He wasn't at dinner!" Leliana exclaimed. "He claimed he was ill."

"Guards!" Cullen shouted. "With me!"

He strode to the Orlesian nobles' camp with a company of guards and the four women. Flinging open the flap of the Baronet's tent, he saw the man and his attendants packing in a flurry of Orlesian finery. "Take them all into custody," he commanded.

Their search for the merchants who had arrived with the Baronet was fruitless. It seemed they had made their escape earlier that evening. Josephine was dejected, but Leliana reassured her. "My people will track them down. Don't worry."

The ambassador sighed. "We should get some rest. It's been a…trying night. I shall have to make it up to the dignitaries somehow…" She departed, and Leliana, stifling a yawn, followed suit.

He and Iseult stood near the central campfire near the main gate. It was a crisp, clear night. The stars shone brightly overhead, and Haven itself seemed to glow as the snow reflected moonlight from the ground.

He regarded the Herald. "You did well tonight," he said. "If it hadn't been for your quick thinking, many more people would have died."

"I'm sorry  _anyone_ had to die. That poor kitchen boy and your officer—it's terrible." She shuddered and crossed her arms. Cullen was not sure whether it was the cold or the night's events that chilled her.

"Well, I think Captain Marland will be forever indebted to you for saving him. There was nothing else you could have done to prevent this."

"We'll have to do better in the future. I knew the Inquisition had enemies, but they all seemed so distant. It was naïve of me, I suppose, to think we were safe here. I'm not used to being on the receiving end of sabotage." She laughed mirthlessly. "Do you think they had a particular target?" she asked him. "Or were they just trying to cripple us? Poisoning an entire cask lacks finesse. Too much can go wrong. If I was planning this, and I had a specific target in mind, I'd poison the glass, or a personal item. More difficult, maybe, but it would ensure results."

It unnerved Cullen that Leliana had clearly been thinking along the exact same lines when she tasted the carafe of wine and not the glass in which it had been poured. He rubbed the back of his neck with a gloved hand.

"We have the baronet and his men in custody. I will get answers, one way or another."

"What's the Inquisition's policy on torture?" Iseult asked dryly.

"I honestly don't know," he sighed. "It hasn't been necessary to think about before now. I can't say I like the idea, but I must ensure the safety of our people."

She hesitated, turning serious. "If—if you need help—well, it's something I can do. Have the skill for, I mean. Obviously, I prefer not—"

"I don't think that will be necessary," he interjected. Cullen looked hard at the Herald. In the moonlight, the resolute cast to her face made her seem carved of ivory. That she would even offer such a thing—Maker's Breath, but who was this woman? He had an icy feeling in the pit of his stomach that she was much more dangerous than any of them had surmised.

"Ah, we should get some rest," he suggested. To his relief, she nodded and retreated to her cabin. Cullen, however, stood in the cold night air for a long time feeling deeply unnerved.


	4. Words and Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hinterlands, as told through field correspondence with Commander Cullen.

Iseult brimmed with energy the morning of their departure to the hinterlands of Fereldan. She, Varric, and Solas would meet the Seeker in the valley—Cassandra had conveniently slipped away with the scouts prior to the arrival of the Orlesian nobles—to try and stabilize the area there.

Iseult was included in this venture because a certain Mother Giselle, a Chantry priest who was in the area aiding the refugees, wished to meet her. Leliana and Josephine felt it would be a good opportunity to gauge the possibilities for gaining Chantry support for the Inquisition. Iseult was just happy to have something to do.

The Orlesian contingent had departed two days ago, having lingered a few days after the disastrous dinner. To everyone's shock, the incident with the poisoned wine had served to whet their desire to support the Inquisition. The nobles whispered among themselves that it was the Herald's holy good fortune that had allowed her to detect the poison, not knowing, of course, that she had spent years training such skills. The Inquisition's coffers were slightly richer, and their political influence was a smidgen more stable. It was a start.

Thistle Bert had been promoted to Head Cook as a result of her penchant for detail. The previous cook had been sent off in disgrace. Iseult suddenly found herself with a staunch ally in the kitchens. Mistress Bert always had an extra delicacy set aside for her whenever she chanced by, and Iseult found her meals accompanied by sweets and fresh fruit, which were hard to come by in Haven. She was now addressed as "Cook," though behind her back the kitchen staff treated her given name almost as a title, combining it to one word: " _Thistlebert_."

The Inquisition's council members no longer treated her with such hostility. Well, she supposed that the Commander was the only one who had been _hostile._ Josephine had been icily civil, and Leliana had seemed unfazed to discover her illicit past. Josephine was now warm and open toward her, and the Commander even nodded at her when he passed, though he was still reserved. Most surprisingly, Leliana had returned her journal and other belongings to her the day the Orlesians departed.

A less desirous result of her successful detection of the poison was that Captain Marland le Bras now followed her everywhere like a loyal puppy. She found herself tripping over him at the most inopportune times, and he insisted on doing every menial task for her. What was worse, some of his comrades had begun joining him, so she no longer had the reprieve of his military duties taking him away for periods of time. Iseult had taken to inventing various errands to send them on. They would bound away happily, giving her a few moments to breathe. She was quickly running out of invented tasks, and she was sure they would soon catch on to her game. Yesterday, she sent a young corporal to find thread that exactly matched the color of a red handkerchief one of the village women had given her. She rejected each spool he brought back as being not quite perfect enough until eventually he returned with every spool of red thread in Haven, depositing the entire hoard on her lap in triumph.

Varric had thought it was all terribly funny.

So, yes, Iseult was quite eager to have a small adventure and get out of Haven's confines. Even more exciting was the prospect of seeing Fereldan. While Haven was _technically_ in Fereldan, it was so close to the border and claimed by both nations that it did not really count as one or the other. Fereldan had a reputation for being constantly rainy and smelling of wet dog, which was not the most appealing picture, but nevertheless, she wanted to see for herself.

She had packed her few belongings the night before, so she was already at Varric's campfire before dawn. The dwarf emerged from his tent some time later holding a rucksack and rubbing his bleary eyes. He gave her an appraising look. "Like a kid at Satinalia," he said, shaking his head. He chuckled.

With ritual movements, he withdrew several implements from his rucksack: a small grate, round-bottomed copper pot with a lid and long handle, a mortar and pestle, and a sack containing what Iseult knew were fragrant, dark beans.

"Don't think I don't know why you're here," he grumped. "And the answer is _no._ " He filled the pot with water and set it on the grate over the fire.

"Oh, please," she wheedled. "Just a taste?"

"No."

At that moment, the Commander walked up. He offered a curt greeting and squatted to warm his hands by the fire. Iseult noticed the dark circles under his eyes and wondered if he had slept.

"You're up early, Curly," Varric said as he poured a measure of beans into the pestle. Taking up the mortar he carefully twisted, releasing their rich aroma into the air.

"Thought I'd see you off," the Commander replied with a shrug. "What is it you're denying the Herald?" He seemed genuinely curious.

"Something I had to go to a lot of trouble to find out here in this cultural wasteland." He lifted the lid of the pot with two fingers and tipped the contents of the pestle into the water.

"You won't let me have even a little?" she said hopefully.

"No!"

The water heated, suffusing the air with a rich, nutty aroma. Iseult inhaled deeply.

"That does smell nice," the Commander said.

"You wouldn't like it," Iseult and Varric said in emphatic unison, causing the Commander to throw up his hands defensively.

"It's an…acquired taste," Varric added.

"What is it?"

" _Coffee,_ " Iseult breathed with longing. "Really, Varric, not one sip?"

He made a disgusted sound. "Oh, fine!" He rummaged in his rucksack, removing two dainty porcelain teacups. Varric lifted the pot and poured the dark liquid into her cup. She held it like a precious thing between cupped hands, savoring the smell.

"She sniffed me out immediately," Varric said to Cullen, jerking his head in Iseult's direction. "Should've known. Damn Ostwickians."

"Ostwickers," she corrected.

"Don't act like you know what you're called better than anyone else," he chided, eyes twinkling. "Why do you think they call us all Marchers? Because no one knows the right vocabulary! Is it Kirkwallers or Kirkwallians? And Starkhavenites is just ridiculous. Better to lump us all into the same category."

Iseult grinned at him and took a sip. The rich nutty taste burst on her tongue, reminding her of chocolate and acid and something that was perfectly, indescribably unique the odd roasted little beans. Her eyelids fluttered with pleasure.

"But what is it? Coffee, I mean," Cullen said.

"All those years in Kirkwall and you never tried it? Ah, well. It's an Antivan delicacy, but they won't say where the beans come from or how they're processed. It's a very controlled market. I'm told Josephine has her own supply, but she's not letting on how she gets it here. You drink it like you would tea, but it's also a stimulant. Great for writing late nights, you know?"

"A stimulant," he said warily. "It's addictive?"

"Not in the way _you're_ thinking. The worst you'd get is a mild headache for a couple of hours."

Iseult regarded the two of them and wondered if there was some subtext to their conversation that she was failing to grasp. Then Solas arrived, interrupting her thoughts.

"Carrying out your morning ritual, I see," he said by way of greeting. His voice was warm and velvety. "How much did Varric protest today?"

"Not as much as usual," Iseult grinned. "Are you going to read my fortune?" She handed him the empty cup, which he accepted with a slight bow.

"I suspect that today any street performer who plies a diluted version of an ancient elvish art could tell your fortune today, my lady." His voice took on a theatrical tone, "'I see a long journey, fraught with peril. You will come to a crossroads. 'Ware the path you choose.'" He outstretched his slim fingers and widened his eyes dramatically.

"Was that…actually a joke, Chuckles? I might have to find you a new nickname."

Solas's mouth curved in a faint smile.  He swirled the dregs with a quick flick of his wrist and then gazed down at the contents. His smile dropped and his brow creased a little.

"Trouble?" Iseult asked nonchalantly.

"I am afraid so. But it is of uncertain origin." He returned the cup to her. She accepted it with a casual shrug of her shoulders.

"You don't seem very concerned about that," Cullen observed to Iseult.

"Solas has read the same message in my cup every day for the past week now."

"Wonderful." Varric's tone dripped with sarcasm. "Starting an adventure with a portent of doom. I'm sure I've never heard _that_ trope before."

 

***

> _Cullen,_
> 
> _Solas arrived with the Herald and Varric today. The fighting between Templars and apostates grows worse. There are many refugees. The road to Redcliffe is closed, so the refugees are camped at a crossroads south of the village._
> 
> _I will not lie. The situation is not good. I am uncertain how much the Inquisition will be able to accomplish in this chaos._
> 
> _Varric wants me to enclose a note. I am sure it is irrelevant._
> 
> _—Cassandra_

> _Curly,_
> 
> _What shit have you gotten me into now? Remind me not to volunteer for any more excursions. At least the kid seems to be holding her own._
> 
> _—V._

***

Cullen rubbed his eyes blearily, sighing at the unending stack of reports and papers to sort through on his desk. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head.

There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for his reply, one of Leliana's messengers stepped into the room.

"Raven came for you, Ser," the messenger said, handing him a roll of parchment.

"Thank you. Dismissed."

The woman saluted and turned on her heel, closing the door behind her. He slipped the string off the parchment and unrolled it. There were two sheets. The first contained a note in an unfamiliar hand. The handwriting was graceful and flowing. It read:

 

> _25 Parvulis_
> 
> _Commander,_
> 
> _Apologies if I fail to follow the protocol of military reports. I have never written one before._
> 
> _Seeker Cassandra requested I update you on our progress. After several encounters with the rogue Templars in the area, we discovered their base of operations. The Seeker has taken a contingent of troops to scout the area._
> 
> _I remain with Varric and Solas at Master Dennet's farm. He is reluctant to aid the Inquisition without assurances for the safety of his family and the surrounding farms in this area. Wolves in this region have been acting strangely. Solas and I will investigate the cause tomorrow._
> 
> _In the meantime, Master Dennet requests that the Inquisition construct watchtowers for the valley's defense. Could you spare some workmen? Enclosed is a map with locations marked, as well as other areas of interest._
> 
> _Solas found some elven artifacts that he believes will aid in the closure of the Breach. We also came across an abandoned Grey Warden camp, but there was no indication of the direction they were traveling._
> 
> _Iseult Trevelyan_
> 
>  

Setting the note aside, he examined the second sheet of paper. It had been carefully folded to fit around a raven's leg. He unfolded it to reveal a map rendered in exquisite detail. The proposed watchtower locations were indeed marked, as were the farms in the valley, and indicators of the terrain and various landmarks. There were notes in the margins about the best travel routes, the numbers and names of occupants, and other useful bits of information.

He wondered who had drawn it. The neat blocked letters did not resemble the Herald's handwriting. Solas, perhaps?

Cullen selected a black sheet of parchment from his desk, specially sized for rolling onto a raven's foot, and scrawled a reply:

 

> _Workmen on their way. Send update on Templars when Cassandra returns. And send more maps._
> 
> _Cullen_

He also penned an order for more workmen to be moved to Master Dennet's farm. It was a fortunate coincidence that the Inquisition already had a few teams of workers in the area. With any luck, the workers would arrive the following day.

He called for one of the soldiers who stood on duty outside his door. Handing off the messages to be sent to the rookery, Cullen sat back down at his desk. Unable to bear the thought of marring the fine map with his own cramped, scratchy hand, he selected a large sheet of parchment and began to make a copy, frowning in concentration as he did so.

Two days later, he received another report from the Herald. The messenger came while he was meeting with Leliana and Josephine to discuss various political maneuvers. He had contributed little to the discussion and was relieved to be interrupted as the two women argued for the umpteenth time over the best order to approach various Orlesian nobles for support.

> _27 Parvulis_
> 
> _Commander,_
> 
> _An update on the Templar encampment: Cassandra received a wound during the melee and is unable to hold a pen at present. It is only a minor injury, and Solas is healing it now, but the Seeker ~~deman~~ requested that I transcribe dictation:_
> 
> _"Cullen. The rogue Templar forces have been scattered. Their main encampment was at the end of a narrow ravine. Highly defensible. (I enclose a map. —I.) A frontal assault was impossible. The Herald suggested an ambush at night. It was a good idea. They were unprepared for an attack, and we took no losses. A few were injured._
> 
> _This valley is secured. Tomorrow I will take the Herald to meet Mother Giselle. From there we will seek out the apostates._
> 
> _Tell him something about how everyone is fine and not to worry."_
> 
> _Thank you for the workmen. Master Dennet is preparing some mounts to depart for Haven. We will escort them when we return._
> 
> _Iseult Trevelyan_

Cullen chuckled to himself reading the Herald's transcription. He vividly imagined Cassandra's forceful dictation. The Seeker was never one to let an injury slow her down.

"Something funny, Commander?" Leliana asked. He handed her the note and then unrolled the enclosed map. It was as finely drawn as the first, but rather than detailing a broader area, it retold the story of the team's assault on the Templar encampment.

From what he could reconstruct, one team of soldiers had feinted a direct assault at the rogue Templars' barricades at the entrance to the ravine. A second team had snuck along the river—though the map seemed to indicate a path _in_ the river—and flanked the Templars, storming their main encampment. With the first team distracting the Templars, a stealth-based second team could have carved a bloody path back down the river valley. It was a sound strategy, provided that the stealth team could successfully navigate the river. For the Templars to have no barricades there, Cullen inferred that either the banks were very steep or the river was especially swift. Possibly both. He was curious to hear the report in person.

Leliana laughed as she finished reading. "It seems our Herald has a sense of humor." She gave the letter to Josephine. "And the horses are welcome good news."

"Yes," agreed Cullen. "It will extend our presence considerably."

"What about the Rifts?" asked Josephine. "Have we any news?"

"My scouts report that the Herald has closed several. It has done much to ease the minds of the local inhabitants and they are well-disposed toward us," Leliana replied. "However, the decreased violence between the Templars and mages in the area has led to increased bandit activity. I am working on locating their base of operations."

"Just let me know when to move in our troops."

 

***

Iseult leaned with her forearms crossed over the split-rail fence as she watched Master Dennet's herd. The mounts had been brought in from their upland pastures in anticipation of their move to Haven. As a clan, the Trevelyans' sole skill lay in horse breeding. They were famous for it in Thedas; even their family crest featured a rearing black stallion on a golden field. She had grown up learning not only equitation and horse breeding, but also the time-tested art of horse buying.

As a child, her father would take her to the seasonal festivals where breeders and merchants brought their stock to sell. The Trevelyans always had the first claim for breeding stock, as lesser merchants wished their animals to gain affiliation with the legendary Trevelyan pedigree. There were unwritten protocols between buyer and vendor, patterns of deferral and skepticism, followed by entreaties, and finally, once both parties were committed to the sale, they would retire to the tents for intense haggling over coffee or tea. When she was a young woman, before her family had sent her off to Orlais, her father had once let her negotiate with the merchants on her family's behalf during Wintermarch, the largest such gathering of the year. Though Iseult bore her family little warmth, she smiled to think on it.

Such thoughts occupied her mind when Horsemaster Dennet approached to lean on the railing beside her, draping his mahogany forearms across the fence in imitation of her posture.

"See one you like?" he asked conversationally.

Without hesitation, Iseult pointed to the herd. "The dappled gray mare."

"Ah, you've an eye, lass. Got her in Val Royeaux about a year back. Not my usual purchase, mind. She's a saddle horse, and not for carrying knights or pulling plows. Trained in _dressur_ like the chevaliers use. But, I couldn't pass her up."

"I thought as much," Iseult mused. "Her trot's too collected to be natural. What's her pedigree?"

"Asaarash. Bought her off a Qunari mercenary."

Iseult whistled low. Of Rivaini origin, it was a rare breed known for its speed and stamina. Looking back at the mare, she saw the markers of the breed: flaring, dish-shaped nostrils, in-curved ears, arched neck, and a high-carried tail. She simply had not expected to find one in the middle of the Fereldan nowhere.

"I want to make you a gift of her," Dennet said in a rush. She stared at him agape. He coughed and his dark skin flushed a deep red. "That is, you've done a lot of work for me and mine. More than you needed to. I want to thank you, and I think you're meant to have her. Just a feeling I have."

Iseult was touched beyond words at the gesture from the taciturn horsemaster. Reckless, she flung her arms about his neck and kissed his cheek. He patted her awkwardly on the back, and when she released him, he was an even deeper red than before.

" _Thank you,_ " she breathed.

"Well, you're a good lass," he said, returning to his customary gruff tone. "There's one other thing. I've decided to come with you. You'll need someone to manage the stables. And it seems like you people are trying to set things right."

Iseult nodded. "That's wonderful news," she said, and meant it.

He harrumphed, waving her off. "Let's get you saddled up. That mare needs someone to put her through her paces. No doubt Seanna will want you to run her racecourse."

"What's her name?"

"Nephelê."

 

***

> _Cullen,_
> 
> _We dealt with the apostates. We are returning to Haven. The Herald sends more maps._
> 
> _Cassandra_

***

Horns sounding in the valley heralded the approach of the group from the hinterlands to Haven. It had been two days since Cullen had received Cassandra's missive, and he had expected them somewhat earlier. Now that they were mounted, it was only half a day's ride from Haven to the crossroads where Mother Giselle had created a temporary camp for the refugees. He imagined it would have taken a bit longer to herd the mounts, but not this much longer. He hoped they had not run into any trouble on the way.

Settling the latest pile of troop reports into a neat stack on his desk, he pulled on his fur-trimmed cloak and strode in the direction of the training field.

He heard, rather than saw, their approach. The sound started as a low rumble, gradually crescendoing to a deafening thunder of hoofbeats that echoed across the valley floor. Suddenly the lead horses crashed through the treeline, scattering the underbrush. They were galloping unchecked straight toward the training field.

The soldiers began to shout and flee. More and more horses streamed through the trees. Suddenly, a rider on a gray mount darted from the edges of his vision, cracking a long whip. The herd wheeled just in time to avoid colliding with the tents and practice dummies. More riders came into view, harrying the edges of the herd to cluster them in a compact circle in the flat plan between the training grounds and the lake. The riders trotted in a circuit around the animals, preventing any headstrong individuals from straying from the pack.

Shortly thereafter, a wagon pulled by a matched team of bay drafthorses cleared the treeline. Cullen recognized Cassandra sitting next to the driver, a dark-skinned man whom he did not know. Varric trotted beside the cart on a fat brown pony. Solas followed behind them on foot.

Cullen walked to meet them. The wagon pulled up alongside him, and Cassandra hurriedly clambered down from the seat. She made a disgusted noise and muttered something about "dung monsters" under her breath.

The dark-skinned man reached over and offered Cullen his hand. "I'm Dennet," he said by way of greeting. "The Lady said you could use some horses. Thought I'd come, too."

Cullen shook his hand and introduced himself, registering with shock that not only had they successfully brought over twice the mounts he had expected, they now had an excellent stablemaster as well.

Belatedly, he thought to ask, "Where is the Herald?"

Dennet jerked his head in the direction of the herd. The gray-mounted rider streaked toward them at a headlong gallop. At the very last minute, the horse dropped its haunches in a controlled slide ending mere feet from the wagon. The rider pulled off the scarf wrapped around her head and over her face, and Cullen recognized Iseult.

Her cheeks were flushed rose-pink and her curly hair sprung out of its long braid to form a dark halo around her face. Violent eyes danced above a radiant smile took them all in, and she panted slightly for breath.

Cullen felt like he had been punched in the gut.

"Lady," Dennet called. "We lost four or five over that last ridge. Mind rounding up the stragglers?"

"Of course," Iseult grinned. "That was a tricky patch of riding."

Wheeling her mount in a maneuver that would make any cavalry drill-sergeant proud, she galloped off in the direction whence they had come. Dennet watched her depart with a fond expression.

"She's very persuasive, your Lady," the horsemaster commented. "And just so you know, that horse she's riding belongs to her, not the Inquisition. It's a gift." The last was said with a note of stubborn challenge.

It occurred to Cullen that when Dennet had first told him about "the Lady," he had been referring to the Herald and not Cassandra, as he had previously thought.  He contemplated the gift of what was clearly an expensive, highly-trained animal and shook his head slightly. What had the Herald done to win this man's loyalty so quickly? As the former Knight-Captain of Kirkwall and now Commander of the Inquisition, it was his job to foster soldiers' loyalty to a cause. He suspected Dennet's offer to join the Inquisition stemmed from a blossoming loyalty that was deeply personal.

"As you say," he conceded with a nod.

"Good," Dennet said, leaning back in the seat. "Now, if you'll point me in the direction of the stables, we can discuss the price for these animals."

 

***

 Iseult sighed with contentment as she stretched her longs legs out in front of Varric's campfire. She felt better than she had in a long, long while. Her muscles ached pleasantly from the ride back to Haven. It had been so long since she had had the chance to ride an exceptional mount like Nephelê. She anticipated with pleasure the work yet to do to make horse and rider truly move as one.

She had been in such a good mood that she had even accepted an invitation from some of the officers to join them in Haven's small tavern for ale and a game of Wicked Grace.  Iseult had won more than she had lost, and now had a small, fat purse of coin tied to her belt. That felt good, too.

Later that evening, Solas had promised to take her stargazing. In the hinterlands, they had come across a curious artifact called an astrarium, which plotted the movements of the heavens. Noting Iseult's curiosity, Solas had offered to tutor her in this ancient elven art. She had gratefully accepted, since it was akin to cartography, one of her favorite pastimes. Though there was more mathematics involved that she had originally expected, she greatly enjoyed their nightly excursions.  

The only damper in the day's events had been Josephine's summons. The Antivan ambassador had handed her a thick packet of documents, written in official script on fine white parchment. It was a copy of Mourrier's final will. He had left nearly everything to her, which shocked Iseult. She suddenly found herself wealthy with the spoils of Mourrier's treachery. Unable to speak, she had shoved the documents unopened into her belt pouch.

Now, leaning against a stone wall as she gazed into the fire, she could feel their bulk pressing against the base of her spine. She shifted uncomfortably, forcing the thoughts from her mind. Better to think on it tomorrow; tonight was for appreciating good things.

Varric hummed to himself as he bustled around the fire. The dwarf had proven himself to be an excellent cook. Even Cassandra could find no fault with his cooking, which said a great deal. The pair of them squabbled like seagulls about everything else.

Now, he delicately lifted the lid of a pot of something aromatic simmering over the fire, and with his other hand he carefully added several pinches of various spices from the leather pouch he carried with him. Iseult inhaled appreciatively.

She was just thinking how perhaps the strange twist of fate that led her to join the Inquisition might not be such a bad thing when suddenly the Breach—looming ever-present in the sky—flared with green energy. A jolt of pain surged up her arm, causing her to gasp. Blinding white light seared her vision as her body tensed with the shock of it. She dimly heard the clang of the metal pot lid dropping, and she felt Varric at her side.

"Hey, kid," he soothed. "You okay?"

She panted as the white light receded to the edges of her vision. "Fine." She forced the word through gritted teeth. Iseult looked down at her marked hand, now clenched in her lap. She had taken to wearing fingerless gloves in order to hide the green mark, but she knew if she took the glove off, it would be flaring like a beacon.

Varric looked at her with concern.

"Really," she assured him. "That one wasn't too bad."

"Somehow that doesn't make me feel better."

Varric was right to be concerned. The pain was getting worse. When Solas had first enspelled her hand to prevent the mark from harming her, the flares of the Breach had caused only a faint twinge. Now, each time the Breach pulsed with arcane energy, her mark responded in kind. It was the same when she tried to close the Fade Rifts, though at least she was mentally prepared for the pain at those times.

"Maybe you should have Solas take a look at it," he suggested.

"I don't think he'll be able to do anything today that he couldn't do yesterday," she replied with a halfhearted smile.

"Well, we'll think of something."

His earnest expression almost convinced her, but deep in her gut she felt there was nothing to be done. How long would it continue to worsen before she could no longer bear the pain? She was not weak, but there was only so much a person could stand. In Mourrier's torture chambers, Iseult had been made to witness what happened when too much pain broke a person's mind. Was that what fate intended for her?

With great mental effort, she forced her mind to still, guiding it away from such thoughts. If that was what would happen to her, there was nothing she could do about it now. These were forces well beyond her control. It was better to focus on the things she had, which included, she thought as she looked at Varric's blunt face, a person she might be able to call friend.

"So," she said. "Is that stew ready yet?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Another super long chapter. Who am I kidding? They're all really long.
> 
> 2\. I realize Iseult is annoyingly good at everything in this chapter. She'll be less of a Mary Sue in the future, I swear. (It's hard to get away from, since the Inquisitor is basically a Mary Sue by definition.)
> 
> 3\. Sometimes I feel like everything I write for Varric is meta-commentary.


	5. Wicked Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iseult reveals how she escaped her former spymaster's clutches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW note: discussion around torture and abuse, though no detailed description. I've already given this story a graphic violence warning, and a lot of that will involve not just combat but also more psychological explorations of physical abuse in the upcoming chapters.

"The Herald! The Herald has returned!" The arrival of Iseult and her party from Val Royeaux was marked with great enthusiasm from the townspeople and soldiers, who abandoned their daily business to gather in a throng around the mounted party. A new addition to their party, the Grand Enchanter Vivienne, supremely elegant on a snowy hart, caused a great stir. Iseult felt bedraggled and small in comparison with the enchantress. She looked forward to a bath and finally changing into clean clothes.

The crowd pressed around her ankles, and she passed greetings to the faces she knew. Her panniers were filled to bursting with small favors requested by the various workmen and many of the children of Haven. They were little luxuries—steel needles, a set of leatherworking tools, dolls, playing cards, and so on—that were nevertheless difficult to come by in their remote mountain home.

Iseult noticed that none of the Inquisition's leaders were there. She was surprised that Cullen was not on the training field, which was his usual post in the afternoon.  She was somewhat startled to realize how she'd tracked his movements over the past few weeks. It's just your training, she told herself. Nothing more.

The party disbanded at the stables. The second new addition to their party, an elf archer named Sera, had vanished sometime previously; Iseult wasn't worried about her. The roguish elf would find a place for herself anywhere, Iseult suspected. 

They were still awaiting the arrival of the final new member to the Inquisition, a Grey Warden named Blackwall. A week prior, Iseult had ridden to the hinterlands to seek out the Warden in his remote mountain cabin. In the sudden absence of the Grey Wardens from Fereldan and Orlais, the Inquisition's leadership was curious as to their whereabouts. Leliana had received information about Blackwall's location, but unfortunately he had known nothing about it.

He had, however, agreed to join them. Iseult had received a brief demonstration of his combat prowess as they had been attacked by bandits shortly after her arrival. Blackwall had requested some time to set his affairs in order, and he was due to arrive at Haven any day.

Enchanter Vivienne—whose moniker was Madame du Fer—handed the reins of her mount directly to Horsemaster Dennet and strode off toward the village with her small retinue buzzing anxiously about her.  Iseult wondered which family would be ousted from their cabin to accommodate the Grand Enchantress.  The rest of her party receded in the direction of their usual haunts.  All except for Cassandra.

"We're supposed to meet Cullen and Leliana in the War Room," she addressed Iseult. "Though I expect there is enough time to wash off the dust of the road before we do."

"Fine," Iseult replied. The Seeker turned to go.

"Cassandra," she added as an afterthought. "Do you think we're making the right decision?"

"I do."

Iseult sighed. She was still nervous.

Seeing her expression, Cassandra continued, "I know you feel powerless in this matter." There was a note of empathy in her voice. "But they can't ignore your wishes in this.  You are the only one who—"

Iseult interrupted her with a wave of her hand. "I know. Thank you for the sentiment. I think I'm just afraid to commit to any action, knowing what I'll have to face once I do."

"You must take action. In that, you have no choice. But you may choose the shape of that action. It's a small comfort, I know."

"The greater comfort is having your support in this. I know we started out on the wrong foot—"

It was the Seeker's turn to cut her off. "Don't worry about that. Our cause is more important than both of us. And besides…" She hesitated. "I…respect what you've done for the Inquisition. You should have a voice in how it proceeds."

Iseult smiled a little.  That grudging admission was the closest thing to warmth she'd received from Cassandra since

their meeting after the events of the Conclave. Even during their travels to the hinterlands of Redcliffe and Val Royeaux, the Seeker was always coolly professional.  Iseult suspected it cost her a great deal to remain so emotionally distant from those around her. She might crack Cassandra's façade yet.

"Thank you, Cassandra. I'll meet you in the Chantry shortly."

The Seeker turned and left.  A small, shadowy figure emerged from behind a stall door.

"My Lady," the figure's tremulous voice asked. "Do you need help with your horse?"

"Yes, thank you, Owein." She smiled at the scrawny stable boy. A refugee from the Conclave, Owein had been so shocked by the horrors there that he hadn't been able to string more than two words together at a time. Horsemaster Dennet had taken pity on the lad, who turned out to be very adept with the horses.  His improvement warmed Iseult's heart.

With a practiced hand, she undid the mare's girth and slid the saddle off her withers. The loaded panniers made the endeavor awkward. In the meanwhile, Owein slipped off the bridle and replaced it with a makeshift rope halter. They both picked up brushes and worked in silence for a time, currying the beast's sweat-dampened coat until it lay smooth and glossy.

When Nephelê was finally settled, Iseult left the tack in Owein's care and took the saddlebags into the village. She made several stops, divvying out the loot to eager recipients. At length, she made her way back to her tent, where some kind soul had left her a steaming ewer of water next to her washbasin. She stripped off her borrowed travel clothes and scrubbed as well as she could with a linen towel. Grateful as she was for hot water, Iseult mournfully calculated how long it had been since she had had a real bath. It had been two nights before the Conclave, so nearly two months. Far too long.

There wasn't time to wash her hair, so she combed it and twisted the unruly riot of curls into a low knot at the nape of her neck. She secured it with a few pins.  There was no mirror, so she could only hope it looked presentable.

With relish, she turned to unpack her saddlebags. With Mourrier's estate entailed to her, Iseult had retrieved her few belongings from his townhouse in Val Royeax. Everything was where she had left it in her old room

Laying the contents of her pack on the cot, Iseult realized how few possessions she actually owned. A few clothes, a necklace from her brother, a bottle of perfume from her mother, some ivory hair combs, a small ebony chest full of potions and antidotes, and her old journals. These in particular she had wanted to retrieve, if only to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands. Nearly a decade's worth of information on Mourrier's spy network and their web of information about the nobles of Orlais. They would be more than enough to convict her of Mourrier's death. If someone could break the cipher, that was.

After leaving Mourrier's estate, she had visited with her financier who went over the details of her inheritance. She had arranged for the sale of the townhouse and all its furnishings. The proceeds and the bulk of Mourrier's bank account had been signed over to the Inquisition. She had the document, scribed on thick white vellum and sealed with the official stamp of the Empress, tucked in her belt pouch. She would give it to Josephine later. What spending money she retained filled two fat purses that she left in the bottom of her pack.

She shook out a white linen shirt that wasn't too wrinkled and donned it. She pulled on black leggings, and a new pair of silver-tooled gray boots. On her thighs, she buckled her twin dagger sheaths, worked in silver and gray to match the boots. She had treated herself to these in Val Royeaux. Atop this, she pulled on a fine wool coat in charcoal gray with sprays of cherry blossoms embroidered at the collar and cuffs. Ah, finally clothes tailored to fit her! It seemed an age since she'd worn her own things. Before the Conclave, she had worn the drab livery of Marquis Durellion's household in her guise as his secretary. Since then, she'd borrowed as best she could from Haven's generosity. 

Leaving the coat unbuttoned, as was the style in Orlais these days, she tied a wide sash of red silk around her waist.  As a final touch, she dabbed perfume on her wrists and throat. Then she carefully packed her belongings away in the small chest at the end of her cot.

She steeled herself to face the leaders of the Inquisition. Feeling halfway presentable bolstered her confidence as she strode from her cabin toward the Chantry.

Four faces looked up from around the massive map table as she entered the War Room. 

"My dear!" Josephine cried as she rushed to kiss Iseult on each cheek. "You look lovely tonight!" Iseult was uncomfortably aware of the joint gazes of Cassandra, Cullen, and Leliana on her. She felt suddenly foolish for her earlier vanity.

"I, ah, was able to retrieve some of my own belongings from Val Royeaux while we were there."

"Yes, how was your trip?" asked Cullen, looking from her to Cassandra. It was clear he meant the comment in regards to their mission. His tone was all business, as usual.

Iseult was happy to recede into the background as Cassandra recounted the tale. Acting on the advice of Mother Giselle, Iseult had traveled with Cassandra to Val Royeaux to meet with some of the Chantry members who might turn a sympathetic ear to the Inquisition. When they arrived, however, they had encountered the Revered Mother Hevara already addressing the assembled clerics, decrying the Inquisition as blasphemy. Lord Seeker Lucius and his Templars had stormed the scene. How one of them punched the Revered Mother, dropping her unceremoniously to the ground. In his contempt of the Revered Mother's authority, Lucius declared the Chantry unworthy of the Templars' protection and marched off, leaving the clerics in an uproar.

"It was…so unlike him," the Seeker said of her former commander. "Something must have changed."

"My agents report that the mages are amenable to a meeting," Leliana offered.

"Surely not all the Templars agree with Lucius," Cullen insisted. "Their abilities are more valuable to the Inquisition."

"Can Lucius be reasoned with?" asked Josephine.

Iseult sighed. The spymaster, soldier, and diplomat. Each playing their assigned role without deviation. Always talking past one another. It was a wonder that the Inquisition ever got anything done.

"The Herald and I have decided that we need the Templars more, even though some of them seem to be under Lucius's thrall. As for the Lord Seeker, I cannot say whether he is open to reason. He acted so unlike himself, though it has been a long time since I've spoken with him."

"You and the Herald?" asked Leliana. "You've decided together? Without our input?"

Dammit, Cassandra, she thought. The Seeker was not a subtle woman. And Leliana was the most subtle woman Iseult had ever met. The Left and Right Hands of the Divine, indeed. How the Divine Justinia had ever managed to keep the two of them working in concert, Iseult could not begin to imagine. She must have been a formidable woman in her own right.

Iseult needed to mitigate the situation. "Even with fewer Templars, I think they will be more effective at closing the Breach."

"How is that possible? With the mages augmenting your ability—"

"Leliana," interrupted Cassandra. "When the Herald uses her power—"

"It's not important, Cassandra."

"It _is_ important. I'm sorry, Iseult, but they need to understand. When the Herald uses her power on one of the smaller Rifts, it causes her a great deal of pain—"

"Cassandra, really, it's not—"

"Is this true, Herald?" Cullen interrupted sharply.

Iseult sighed and nodded, sinking into a nearby chair. She had not wanted them to know. It was not important, not in the grand scheme of things. The Inner Circle needed to make decisions to save the world from tearing apart. Her own pain should not be a factor. And yet— _And yet it forces me to seek the Templars' aid_ , she thought.

"Even if the mages were augmenting her power, on a Rift as large as the Breach, she might lose control in the face of that pain. It could be disastrous," Cassandra explained. "The Herald must remain in control if she is to succeed. If the Templars could suppress the strength of the Breach enough, she stands a chance."

"That's speculation," Leliana countered, eyes narrowing.

"It's based on our experience in the field, and it's getting worse. We must act quickly," Cassandra concluded.

Iseult was intensely aware of Cullen's eyes boring into her. She could take it from Josephine, or even Leliana, but why did he have to affect her so?

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. To what he referred, Iseult could not say.

Leliana considered this for a long moment. "Tell me something, Herald," she announced finally. "Did Mourrier die from his illness?"

"What does that have to do—" Cullen sputtered.

"No."

Cullen cut himself off abruptly and stared.

"Then you know how he did die."

"Yes."

"How?"

Iseult paused. What was the spymaster's game? She felt like she was on a merchant's scale, teetering in the balance. What answer would send her sliding into the abyss?

"Technically, he killed himself."

There was an uproar around the table, as her listeners exclaimed in amazement. Only Leliana remained calm.

"That's not the whole story."

"No, it's not."

"Enlighten me." Iseult heard the true meaning behind Leliana's command. Convince me that you are not some spy's plaything. Convince me that you have half a brain in your head. Convince me to agree with you to seek out the Templars against my own better judgment.

 Iseult licked her lips. How to reveal enough without giving herself entirely away to the others?

"You know the cure for ventropsy?"

The spymaster nodded. "A drug called mandragore. It's distilled from mandrake root."

Mandragore was poisonous except for those afflicted by ventropsy, a chronic disease that could be managed through regular ingestion of mandragore. It was hellishly expensive to obtain. Before he died, Mourrier had parted with the majority of his wealth to maintain his dosage, though by any normal standards he was still quite well off.

"And you know the symptoms of the disease, as well, then?"

Leliana nodded again.

"Mourrier didn't actually have ventropsy."

She held the spymaster's gaze for what seemed an eternity. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. It was Cullen who interrupted them.

"I don't understand. This has nothing—"

Leliana cut him off with a gesture. She wore a look of understanding, and Iseult was surprised to see newfound respect there as well. "He had no idea what he had in you, did he?"

"I only did what he trained me to do."

"And you did it so well he forgot what you are." She tapped a finger on her pursed lips. "Very well. I respect the Herald's decision. Let us seek out the Templars."

Iseult let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. She watched as Leliana turned to face the bewildered members of the Inner Circle, sharing her agents' information about the Templars' whereabouts and recent activity.

They did not need her for this part. She sat in the chair, trying to recover her composure. Leliana was as formidable as Mourrier had been, perhaps even more so. With her as a rival, it was a wonder his influence had lasted as long as it did. 

It had taken nearly three years for Iseult's plan to escape Mourrier to come to fruition. It had long been clear that Mourrier would never voluntary release her from his control. She could not escape to practice the arts he had taught her; his spies would have destroyed her immediately. They would have slandered her reputation or taken her life, whichever suited Mourrier's mood. Appealing to her family in Ostwick for aid was not an option, either. She could not trust the family who sent her to be "educated" by the foremost bard in the Orlesian court, not suspecting the result would be her virtual servitude.  She resented them for their ignorance as much as for their mistake.  At any rate, their protection would have been slim indeed.

No, it had to be murder. And it had to be clean.

From the Marquis Durellion's household, Iseult heard rumors of Mourrier's declining health. His reputation suffered for it, and rumors of his enfeebled mind had lost him the Empress's favor. One by one his noble sponsors trickled away from his grasp. When Leliana finally told her of his death, the former master spy had been utterly ruined. 

No one suspected foul play. His death was merely a tragedy for some. For his enemies, his declining health and eventual death were victories to savor. When Iseult returned to his home in Val Royeaux, she saw that no one had even bothered to search her room. No one knew what truly transpired.

Except now Leliana.

Even the spymaster had no proof. Without more details, she could not make a case against Iseult, and Iseult had no reason to suspect she would. Leliana was no doubt grateful for the death of one of her rivals. Iseult surmised that the spymaster merely wanted the solution to the puzzle. After all, spies rarely die natural deaths.

"Iseult!" Cassandra's voice shocked her from her reverie. "Come see what you think."

Mildly surprised that they would include her, Iseult joined the others at the map table. The Templars were holed up in a formidable keep called Therinfal Redoubt. It was a remote fortress, traditionally used by the Seekers as a training ground that would isolate them from distraction or temptation of the outside world. The plan seemed sound. As soon as possible, Josephine would approach the Lord Seeker to request an audience. With the Inquisition's reputation as challengers to the Chantry's authority, he would likely accept them as potential allies. In the meantime, Leliana's agents would attempt to ascertain the situation within the keep and seek to unveil Lucius's plans, whatever they might be. Cullen still had contacts within the Templars, and indeed, several Templars had followed him when he joined the Inquisition. They would reach out to their brothers-in-arms.

Once everyone had agreed to their course of action, the mood relaxed perceptibly. An attendant brought a tray of mulled wine, two glasses of which Iseult drained without pause. She looked around. Cassandra was deep in conversation with Leliana in one corner of the room, their heads tilted together. Cullen leaned over the map table, muttering to himself. He liked to think out loud, Iseult had noticed. Now he seemed to be reviewing how to lay siege to mountaintop keeps. She felt that was not a train of thought she should intrude upon. Fortunately, Josephine beckoned her over.

The ambassador had a way of putting everyone at ease. Iseult was grateful to her.

"My dear, what is that heavenly perfume you are wearing? I adore it! What is it? Rose and sandalwood, and something else I don't recognize. It's something spicy—"

"Cinnamon," Cullen said. He looked up as if surprised at himself. Leliana and Cassandra had turned at the interruption. Realizing he was now the object of all four women's attention, he flushed to his hairline. "I spent ten years in Kirkwall. It's a common enough spice in the Free Marches, though rare elsewhere."

"Yes," Josephine said, curious, "but how did you notice it in the Herald's perfume? You must have quite the nose."

"I notice things," he replied evasively, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Since when?" Leliana challenged. A smirk played about her lips as she glanced from Cullen to Iseult and back.

It was time to intervene. "M-my perfumer is in Ostwick," Iseult told Josephine. She acknowledged Cullen's grateful look with a small nod before continuing. "But I'm afraid he won't sell it to you. He believes that each person has a scent suited just for them. Any perfume he mixes is unique. My mother took me to have mine made for my fifteenth birthday. She sends me a bottle each year. It's something of a tradition in our family."

"Oh, how charming!" Josephine gushed. "Yes, you must give me his name. Perhaps the next time I am on my way to Antiva, I can stop by…"

The council meeting degenerated into pleasantries until all mutually agreed to retire. Iseult was relieved to return to her tent and collapse onto her bed, not bothering to take off her clothes. As she drifted off to sleep, she thought about the Commander. Had there been concern on his face when Cassandra revealed the true reason why Iseult wanted to seek the Templars' aid? And he had noticed her perfume. She had never known him to notice anything like that. Her lips curved into a smile as she fell asleep.

***

 Early the next morning, Cullen was making his usual rounds when he was surprised to find Varric lounging near the great central campfire. Usually Varric was late to bed and late to rise. As he drew nearer, he concluded that the dwarf had not actually gone to sleep at all based on the wine stains around his collar and the rings under his eyes.

"Curly!" Varric greeted him cheerily.

"You're up early," he returned.

"Up late, you mean. Wicked Grace is a cruel and demanding mistress. But the rewards are definitely worth it." He jangled a full purse of coin at his belt.

Cullen rolled his eyes. Every time Varric took money from his soldiers at night, Cullen had to deal with the sullen men the next day. It was a perpetual cycle.

A thought occurred to him. "Varric, can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

He proceeded to explain Leliana's questions to the Herald from the meeting the previous evening. While he knew something deeper than their cryptic exchange had passed between the two, he could not for the life of him figure it out. Leliana might be the Inquisition's official spymaster, but Varric was no slouch himself, managing his own modest network of informants. If anyone could enlighten him, the dwarf was his man.

As he finished, Varric stood silent for a long time. His eyes were closed, brow furrowed, and he rubbed his fingers along the bridge of his nose. Finally he said, "Okay, once more, and tell me _exactly_ what they said."

Cullen repeated it, as best as he remembered.

"Okay, let me talk through it. From what I remember, mandragore is a rare drug—really rare—from Nevarra. It's trade is thoroughly monitored, though it's not illegal. It's actually poisonous—deadly, in fact—but it takes a very long time for the effects to show up. It's only real use is to manage ventropsy _._

"Now, ventropsyis a debilitating disease. Degenerative. Makes your hands shake and your brain fuzzy. Occasionally fatal, but usually only if you're poor. Mourrier certainly wasn't poor."

Cullen nodded. "Iseult said Mourrier didn't actually have the disease. And she said he killed himself."

"Well, like I said, if he was taking mandragore, he would've died from it eventually. And if he didn't have—oh!" Varric's eyes were suddenly wide. "If she did what I think she did…Well, that's a hell of a long play."

"So she did it? She murdered him?"

"Hey, don't get all judgmental just yet. How'd you like to be a kid sold into indentured servitude to a perverted old Orlesian spymaster? She might have been born into privilege, but this past decade hasn't been exactly easy for her."

"Perverted? You don't think he—"

"Ah," Varric sighed. "I don't know about _that_ sort of thing." The dwarf paused, considering. "I'd heard of Mourrier before, you know. He was a big player in the spy game for decades. There were…rumors."

Cullen sat down on a nearby barrel. He rubbed his face with his hands. He debated whether he wanted to ask the inevitable question. Finally, deciding it was better to know than not, he said, "What sort of rumors?"

"Well—and this is all hearsay, so don't jump to conclusions—but I heard that once he intercepted the agent of a rival spymaster. The body was found days later, and…well, the poor bastard had clearly been tortured for days before he was allowed to die. Tortured in some very nasty ways. Mourrier left the body so it would be found, as a warning to the other spymasters. Not many dared cross Mourrier."

Ice churned in his gut. The night of the poisoning flashed in his mind—how Iseult had offered to interrogate the prisoners. He wondered just how she had learned such a thing, and then he recalled the conversation from when Leliana first revealed that she was a spy. _If I displeased him, I was whipped and beaten,_ she had said. The full impact of that statement—that the Herald had endured a decade of such treatment—echoed in Cullen's mind.

After a time, he asked, "How did she do it, then?"

"She must have had help. Maybe she used one of her contacts at the University. Either that, or she's secretly a brilliant alchemist. Face like hers, though, she wouldn't have a hard time finding someone who wanted to rescue her. Play the hero for the grateful maiden."

Cullen made an exasperated sound in his throat.

"All right! Calm down, Curly. I'll tell you. She found someone—someone _very_ good—to make a poison that _simulated_ the symptoms of ventropsy _._ A nonfatal, undetectable poison. You can be sure that Mourrier knew all the poisons there are, so it would have to be something totally new. And for her to actually get away with it without him suspecting…Well, she must have played him like a fiddle. Had him so convinced of her loyalty that she was beyond suspicion.

"Once the symptoms manifest, he probably got diagnosed with the disease. And I can just imagine the old bastard's face when he found out the cost to suppress the symptoms." Varric chuckled, a deep, rumbling in his chest. "After he thought he was sick, she could stop poisoning him. The 'symptoms' would disappear, making it seem like the mandragore was working. It's fucking brilliant. No one would suspect anything. And technically, she's right. He _did_ kill himself. Oh, it's just perfect!"

"How long did it take?"

"Years, probably. Planning, finding someone to help, making the poison, waiting for diagnosis. And the drug itself would take at least a year to finally kill him."

Cullen pondered this. He didn't like to think that the Herald of Andraste was capable of cold-blooded murder, and yet, under the circumstances…"Why didn't she just leave?"

"And go where? Do you know what it's like to thwart someone like Mourrier? Imagine her options. One, she runs back to Ostwick. To the idiots who sold her to him in the first place—"

"That's another thing I don't understand. You keep saying they 'sold' her—"

"You could ask her yourself, you know." Varric caught the expression on the Commander's face and threw up his hands. "Fine, fine! From what I've heard, most of the Trevelyans are idiots. Sure, they know their way around a horse, but they don't have a brain to share between the lot of them. Well, that's not entirely true," he amended. "The Herald has an uncle—Wyndam, I think. Wyndam was brighter than the rest of them, though never educated. When the Herald came along…Well, she must have been like a diamond in a pile of horse shit, and Wyndam could see it.

"I think he was genuinely trying to help her when he contacted Mourrier. Mourrier agreed to take her on as an apprentice, in exchange for a fee and her continued services for a few years after her training was finished. There was a contract."

"At the end of it, House Trevelyan would get a master-trained spy," Cullen pointed out.

"Oh, I'm sure that was part of the plan. They're dumb as rocks, but even idiots can want power.

"Of course," Varric continued, "Wyndam didn't figure that this would make his niece entirely powerless in the whole exchange. Mourrier decided he didn't want to give her up. She couldn't leave—with his influence, he could destroy her wherever she went. By reputation, he was certainly petty enough to track her down no matter how long it took."

Cullen buried his face in his hands. "Maker, what a mess."

Varric pulled a barrel up next to his and hopped on it. "And you know what the grand irony is in this whole situation? The second she gets free of that old bastard—the only freedom she's known in her whole life—Andraste slaps that Mark on her hand and pushes her out of the Fade, binding her to the Inquisition. You tell me what _that_ says about the Maker."

They sat in silence for a time. The camp slowly came to life around them. People passed by going about their daily errands. A few called out greetings to him or Varric, which he returned half-heartedly.

Cullen thought back to the first time he'd seen the Herald. Word of her encounter with Andraste in the Rift and her miraculous survival had spread like wildfire through Haven. Many disbelieved, but many more took it as a sign from the Maker than whatever danger they faced with the Breach, his hand would shelter them. The world had rocked after the Divine Justinia's death, and Cullen had been trying to contain the disaster as best he could.

After first learning that Iseult was only at the Conclave to spy on the Divine, Cullen had knelt for a long time before the Chantry's altar. What salvation was this, that their only hope to heal the world was someone they could never trust?

Now, sitting beside Varric on a barrel in the middle of their rag-tag war camp, he regretted his reaction. In his anger with the Maker and his frustration at his surroundings, he had been neither sympathetic nor kind to Iseult. Leliana had accepted that her occupation did not define her character, and Josephine had been the first to show empathy.

Varric had taken her under his wing in the camp, where Iseult got along well with the soldiers. They idolized her for her beauty and wit as much as for being Andraste's Herald. She beat them at cards, and they did not seem to mind. She even had a regular following of soldiers, who in their off-duty hours tailed her around the camp, hoping that she would let them perform some task to win her affection in the way foolish young men are wont to do.

Even stern Cassandra respected her now after their service together in the field. Though she was tied by the mark on her hand to the Inquisition at the risk of her own life, nevertheless, Iseult had gone beyond duty to ensure that the refugees of Fereldan's hinterlands were cared for. Many of them—the majority skilled laborers—had come to Haven after her interventions on their behalf.

Last night, Iseult had at long last won Leliana's admiration, which spymaster rarely gave. Since Divine Justinia's death, Leliana had become even more jaded and canny. It made her difficult to work with, but Iseult's cunning had won her over.

Cullen realized how somewhere in his subconscious mind he had noticed all these things and still managed to ignore them. He knew that he tended to throw himself into his work. That tendency was enhanced by the disaster at Kirkwall and Knight-Commander Meredith's betrayal, as if he was trying to make up for the actions of the Templar Order, to which he no longer even belonged.  And there was the lyrium, too— _That's no excuse,_ he told himself harshly, interrupting the flow of his own thoughts. None of it was an excuse for his blindness.

Here I sit, thought Cullen bitterly. As usual, the last one to the party.

Cries of distress broke his reverie. Cullen looked to Varric in alarm, who in turn was looking up at the sky. More specifically, at the Breach, which was pulsing and shooting out green flares. It was not the first time this had happened, but it caused a surge of panic each time.

"Ah, shit!" exclaimed Varric suddenly. "Hang on, Vixen. I'm coming."

He hurtled himself with surprising agility off of the barrel and hustled through the crowd. Confused, Cullen followed close behind. They pushed their way through the throng, and Cullen finally realized where they were. It was the Herald's cabin.

Cullen hesitated, but Varric pushed the door open without delay and entered. After a moment, the Commander followed.

Iseult was curled up in a ball on the dirt floor, clutching her left hand in agony. Silent tears poured down her cheeks. Her Mark flared and pulsed, and without looking Cullen knew it matched the rhythm of the Breach. Her eyes stared off toward some unknown anguish.

Varric knelt down beside her. "Hey, Vixen," he soothed. "I'm here. It's gonna be okay." He stroked the hair by her face. "Shit," he muttered. "She's not breathing. Curly, give me a hand."

Kneeling, Cullen helped Varric ease the Herald into a sitting position.

"I hate doing this," the dwarf said as he backhanded Iseult hard across the face, sending her sprawling.

"What in the Void—" Cullen exclaimed angrily, but he cut off as the Herald drew a shaky breath. Her eyes slid into focus as her mind returned to her.

"Thanks." She forced the word through gritted teeth. Cullen watched her face as she battled to control the pain. Her breathing was slow and regular only by great force of her will.

"No problem. You just needed to snap out of it, is all.  Let's get you on the bed, okay?" Varric suggested. The Herald nodded grimly, bracing for more pain.

"Let me," Cullen said. He scooped Iseult up in his arms and set her on the bed in a single fluid motion. It was only then he became uncomfortably aware of how very thin her linen nightshift was. Clearing his throat, he backed away.

At that moment, Cassandra burst into the room. "I came as soon as I saw. Is she—?"

"She'll be fine. Right, Vixen?"

Iseult, teetering precariously upright, nodded. "Never felt better," she muttered.

Cassandra registered Cullen's presence. "Commander! What are you doing here?"

"He followed me," Varric offered. "We were having a chat when the sky exploded."

"He wasn't supposed to—"

"Well, it's too late for that now."

Cullen watched this exchange and looked back at Iseult, who avoided his eyes. So they had arranged to keep this a secret, had they? He remembered how embarrassed Iseult had been when Cassandra confessed the true extent of how she had been marked. If this was what happened with a minor flare-up of the Breach, or even when they closed the smaller Rifts in the field, he could begin to fathom what it would be like to try and seal the Breach itself. What he could not figure out was why she wanted to keep it from him.

"Is it always like this?" he asked quietly. He wasn't sure whom he was addressing.

It was Iseult who answered, drawing a shuddering breath. "No. I was asleep. If I'm awake, I can brace for it."

"Iseult," Cassandra reprimanded. "He needs to know the truth. It _was_ like this the last time you closed a Rift. It's been getting worse."

Through her pain, Iseult managed to glare up at the Seeker. Cassandra was implacable in the face of the Herald's ire, merely crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"How about a drink?" Varric asked, relieving the tension. "Think you can handle it, Vixen?"

She nodded. He unbuckled his hip flask and unscrewed the top. Iseult took it with shaking hands and brought it to her lips. She took a deliberate swallow and handed the flask back. Varric took a long swig of his own.

"It's receding," Iseult said. "I'll be fine. Thank you.  All of you."

Varric patted her affectionately on the shoulder. "Come on, Curly. Let's go."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed. "I'll stay for a bit, just to make sure."

Looking at Iseult, Cullen desperately tried to find the right thing to say. Failing, he turned to follow Varric wordlessly out of the tent. He cursed himself for his own awkwardness.

"Why is she trying to keep it a secret?" he asked as they left.

Varric shrugged. "She doesn't think it matters. She thinks she's going to die—either by _not_ closing the Breach and letting the mark kill her, or through the shock of actually closing it. I think she wants to spare you—and Josephine and Leliana, too—the burden of knowing that when you make your decisions. And I think she wants to keep some of her dignity. It's all she really has, you know."

Cullen pondered this. It was admirable, he supposed, though he still did not like it. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him.

"Why 'Vixen'?" he asked.

Varric gave nicknames to all his friends, though Cullen hadn't heard that the Herald had earned that dubious distinction.

Varric grinned. "The eyes. Tilted like a fox's. You _can't_ tell me you hadn't noticed."

Cullen cleared his throat. "Of course—" He stopped, thinking better of what he had been about to admit. Instead, he said stiffly, "I thought it might be a character reference." He recollected overhearing the unfulfilled desires expressed by some of his men during their late-night banter. He could not help but wonder if she had bestowed her favor on any of them.

"Ha! Well, maybe a little of that, too." Varric looked up at him with an odd expression. Belatedly, he added, "Though I think it's more show than anything. She's got enough on her plate right now."

In spite of himself, Cullen felt reassured. The _why_ behind the reassurance, however, unnerved him. Varric parted ways with him once they reached the center of camp, leaving Cullen alone with his thoughts.

 

***

Varric glanced over his shoulder at the befuddled Commander as he shuffled away in search of breakfast. He smiled to himself. Humans, he thought. They spend all their time with their heads up their asses. Can't even see what's in front of their faces _._ He sent up a small prayer of thanks to the Maker and Andraste and whoever else up there had the good sense to make him a dwarf. Otherwise, he would be as crazy as the rest of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In my headcanon, the Mark causes pain in proportion to how serious the threat of the Breach is. Over time, whatever Solas did to forestall the Mark from killing the Herald wears off. This was in my headcanon before I played the Trespasser DLC, so I was happy to see that Bioware did something similar in that.


	6. Friendly Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seeker and the Herald do some sparring.

She was in a thunderous mood. It was one thing to be jolted awake by the searing pain in her left hand that marked an upset of the balance between this world and the Fade. It was another thing entirely to be found writhing on the floor in her underwear by the _Commander._ Varric and Cassandra were bad enough, though she did not really mind the former's teasing or the latter's stoic concern. But Cullen—damn the man! He was so unreadable. She felt utterly humiliated, sitting on the edge of her cot while Cassandra fussed over her.

The Seeker was muttering to herself. What was it about these military types that they were always thinking out loud? Iseult had never spent time around soldiers before. The camp culture was something of a shock for her, being raised first in the demure home of noble Free Marchers and then amongst the subtleties and intrigues of Orlais's vast network of spies. The bluntness of military life was a relief in some ways, but it was an utter mystery in others.

Unable to stand it any longer, Iseult blurted out, "Feel like some exercise?"

Cassandra stopped her mothering and blinked at her. "Now? Surely you need rest."

"What I need is to hit something. Mind if it's you?"

The Seeker grinned. "You do need work facing shielded opponents. Very well.  I'll meet you in the training field in half an hour. Eat something first," she concluded with an admonishing stare.

Once the Seeker left, Iseult called one of the omnipresent kitchen boys and asked for some breakfast, if any was left. The urchin grinned at her state of undress and scampered off. Iseult rolled her eyes.

Back in the tent, stripped off her chemise and donned underwear and a soft corselet that bound her breasts.  She selected a loose-fitting pair of linen trousers and a cropped vest in supple red leather.  It was in the Ostwick style—lacing up in front to a square neckline and a curved, raised collar. Typically, women from Ostwick wore the vest over a long, knee-length tunic. Going without the tunic wasn't particularly modest, she reflected as she looked down at herself. The vest bared her midriff. Then again, it wasn't terribly different than what she'd seen the female soldiers wear when they sparred. When they weren't wearing armor, that was.

Her own style of fighting required maximum freedom of movement.  She didn't wear any armor, save the lightweight vambraces that were a last line of defense in a tight spot. She pulled on woolen elbow gloves that were cut off at the fingertips. These both padded the vambraces and hid her Mark from inquisitive eyes.

Breakfast arrived while she was lacing up the leather-and-steel bracers. She ate quickly and then laced her boots and buckled on her knife belt. Instead of her daggers, she took the practice daggers which were wood with a leaded core to simulate the balance of her own knives. The blacksmith had made them especially for her, since the Inquisition's army trained primarily with swords.

Iseult was both excited and nervous as she made her way to the training ground. She had watched the soldiers practice before, but she had never practiced openly in camp.  In the field, Cassandra would spar with her. 

It was still a strange thing, to fight openly. Mourrier had trained her in the style of the most famous assassins in Thedas—the Antivan Crows.  While they could more than hold their own in a fair fight, their style favored fast, high-impact attacks and sudden retreats.  If you did it right, your enemy would be dead after the first strike. Of course, that also assumed that your enemy did not know you were coming.

She took a deep breath to steady herself.

At Haven's gates, she was met by a young man whom she did not recognize. "Are you the Herald of Andraste?" he asked. He was a brown-haired youth—from Tevinter by his accent—in non-regulation armor and short-cropped hair.

"I am," she replied. "Might I know who's asking?"

"Cremisius Aclassi, but most call me Krem." He sketched a bow. "I'm part of a mercenary group called the Chargers. I've been trying to get a message to your people from my commander, Iron Bull. None of them will see me."

"You can give me the message."

"Now that I've seen you, I think Iron Bull would prefer it that way." He grinned mischievously at her and winked. "We've heard about your Inquisition. This letter has an offer from Iron Bull. If you're interested, come see us in action. There's no one better than the Chargers. We're camped on the Storm Coast."

"I'll certainly consider it," she replied, accepting the letter. "A pleasure to meet you, Krem. Make sure to get something to eat before you return. Tell the kitchen I sent you."

"Thank you, my lady." Krem bowed again and turned to leave.  Iseult tapped the letter thoughtfully to her chin. Finally, she went to join Cassandra.

 

***

 "Hey, Curly," Varric called in greeting. "Looks like the Herald is going to spar with the Seeker. Should be good if you want to watch."

The Commander dismissed the messenger he had been talking to and walked to join him. He glanced to where Iseult and Cassandra were staking out a patch of ground, stamping down any loose clods of dirt.

"I should have thought to ask the Herald if she'd like to train with the troops. That was remiss of me," Cullen said.

Varric laughed.

"Why is that funny?"

"Train with those yahoos?" Varric gestured at the fresh-off-the-farm troops that Cullen had been training when he arrived.

Cullen bristled. "I'll have you know—"

Varric waved him off. "I'm sure your training program is excellent, Curly. But…well, just watch."

The two women now circled each other, weapons drawn. Cassandra planted her feet deliberately with each step, while Iseult assumed the crouched stance of a knife-fighter, balancing lightly on the balls of her feet. Both women were nearly the same height, with Cassandra being slightly the taller. While towering height suited the Seeker's armored, defensive combat style, it was unusual in Iseult's case. Most speed-based fighters tended to be short and slight of build. The Herald was neither. However, the bulk of the Seeker's head-to-toe armor when compared to Iseult's complete lack thereof made the Herald seem fragile and exposed.

When Iseult finally struck it was with all the speed and venom of a coiled viper. Cassandra threw up her shield against the flurry of blows. Unable to counterattack—for the Herald's onslaught afforded no opening—she stepped doggedly into a defensive stance, biding her time until an opportune moment. A warrior with an ounce less of Cassandra's skill—and even Varric could admit that as a warrior, she was exceptional—would have been downed in that first strike, so quickly did it fall.

"Maker's Breath," the Commander exhaled.

"See what I mean?"

"I…had no idea. Cassandra called her combat skills 'adequate.'"

"Coming from Cassandra, that’s high praise." She had once described his skill with a crossbow as "banal." It had surprised him for two reasons: one, because he was a damn good shot, and two, because her vocabulary contained the word.

Surprise was writ plain on Cullen's face. The Commander was no slouch in combat himself. Varric had watched him spar with Cassandra often enough. What the Seeker won through dogged perseverance, the Commander won through tactical strategy, and he won slightly more often. Against a giant or a dragon, Varric would wager on the Seeker, but against another person? His money was on Curly. Not only was he very good at reading his opponents, he had a reputation for reading the ebbs and flows of pitched battle even while in the thick of it.

Varric had only had one occasion to be in a fight at Cullen's side. When the Chantry in Kirkwall had exploded, Cullen had led the loyal Templars in battle against the red lyrium-crazed Knight-Commander Meredith and her forces. Hawke and his companions had fought at the loyal Templars' side. Cullen's leadership that day had played no small part in preventing more needless deaths. Cassandra had done well to recruit him for the Inquisition.

Back in the sparring ring, the Herald was relentless. It took an extraordinary degree of stamina to maintain the speed at which she attacked. She fought with both hands and feet, more than once catching the Seeker by surprise as she landed a whirling kick. This went on for some time before Iseult finally snuck past Cassandra's defenses to land what would have been a killing blow.

They broke apart. "Good," said Cassandra. "Again."

It went on for some time. Iseult technically scored more points, but when the Seeker hit, the Seeker hit _hard_. At one point, Cassandra managed to time a shield bash so that it caught Iseult with her arms crossed awkwardly over her chest and knocked her flat on her back. Cassandra followed through with an overhand swing of her sword, which the Herald barely managed to avoid by rolling away and pushing off of her hands to spring to her feet. She came up behind Cassandra and stomped backwards behind the Seeker's calf, dropping her to her knees. In a flash, Iseult had her daggers at the woman's throat. Only after she had finished the kill, so to speak, did Iseult wheeze and double over. The force of Cassandra's earlier blow had knocked the air from her lungs.

Varric wondered if he should be taking notes. This would make a good addition to the story he was writing. He contemplated how to describe the battle. Iseult's style had an arrhythmic quality, like sand shifting in the desert. It made it difficult to predict her next move. No, sand would not work. There was no counterpoint to it. He would only end up mixing metaphors.

Fire and ice? That was more promising. Iseult danced and flickered like a flame, while the Seeker was cold and glacial—

"How long does this usually last?" Cullen asked.

Startled from his reverie, Varric realized that a crowd had gathered to witness the match. He shrugged.

"Usually however long it takes me to cook dinner." Food was usually the only thing that could break to two of them apart once they began. He was long familiar with the Seeker's tenacity, but he suspected that Iseult's cordial façade masked a deep stubborn streak.

Iseult blocked Cassandra's thrusting sword with her right vambrace, metal ringing and sparking against metal. Spinning on her right foot, she knocked the sword from the Seeker's hand with a whirling kick. She moved in for the finishing blow when Cassandra fisted her square in the gut with a metal gauntlet.

Iseult immediately doubled over, groping to steady herself. Cassandra's face went wide with shock when she realized what she had done.

"Maker!" she exclaimed.

Cullen covered the ground between them with long strides, and Varric hustled behind him.

"I'm sorry—" Cassandra said to Iseult, eyes wide. "I'm sorry." She turned to face the approaching men. "I forgot she was wearing armor."

Iseult's mouth was agape as she vainly struggled to breathe. After several long moments, there was a violent rasping noise as air rushed into her lungs.

" _Bullshit_ ," she wheezed.

The Seeker, still in shock, leaned forward to help the Herald stand upright. Iseult was still gasping for air.

"No way…punch someone…in _armor_ ," she puffed between breaths.

Varric laughed. He could not help it. The kid had spunk.

Cassandra entreated her with apologies, but Iseult waved her off.

"It was a fair hit," she said gamely. "I should have been prepared for a counterattack."

"That's enough for today," Cullen said.

Iseult shook her head. "I'll be fine. I just need—"

"That wasn't a suggestion, Trevelyan."

Her head jerked up to look at him, jaw set square and eyes flashing. Varric hurriedly cleared his throat.

"Come on, Vixen," he said soothingly. A battle of wills between the Herald and the Commander was the last thing they needed. "Let's walk it off."

With a brief nod, her eyes shifted focus from the Commander to him. He herded her off, leaving the Seeker to Cullen. She still panted heavily and her muscles shuddered with tension.

They walked in the direction of a nearby oak tree. Iseult shook out her limbs as she walked.

"Do you have a handkerchief?" she asked.

"Yes, but I'm not giving it to you. You're dripping."

It was true. Sweat poured from the Herald's temples and ran in little rivulets down her body, beading on her collarbone and abdominal muscles, trickling down the line of her cleavage—hm, maybe he should write this into _Swords and Shields_ instead _,_ if he ever dared write the next installment of that literary atrocity.

She scoffed at him.

He was unfazed. "Besides, that's what _sleeves_ are for," he said pointedly.

She rolled her eyes, wiping her brow ineffectually with her fingertips.

"Are you actually okay, or are you putting on a brave face?" He tried and failed to keep the mothering tone out of his voice. Varric was always a worrier.

"I _will_ be fine," she said, "but I think I'll be able to feel every one of Cassandra's fingers for about a week."

She leaned back, stretching out the side of her stomach that had taken the blow. It was already beginning to turn a violent, dark purple.

"There's a crowd," she observed in surprise as her eyes swept the practice field. The soldiers who had gathered to watch were still milling about, though they were beginning to disperse now they realized the sparring was over. Cassandra was guzzling out of a waterskin while the Commander was saying something to her with a serious expression on her face.

"Can you blame them? That was quite a show."

Her cheeks flushed pink, and it had nothing to do with physical exertion. "Um, well," Iseult stammered. "I'll be back over in a bit. I'm just going to do some flexibility movements."

Without waiting for his reply, she turned feet over hands into a handstand. Knowing a dismissal when he saw one, Varric turned and let her be.

 

***

Maker's Breath, was he never going to escape the scrutiny of women? Cullen could feel their gaze on his back as he led the few Templars who had followed him from Kirkwall in their daily drills.  Iseult was leaning on a fence rail, forearms crossed. Cassandra stood next to her, talking and pointing in his direction. After performing an elaborate sequence of flexibility postures, Iseult had returned to the training ring, Cassandra had offered her water from her waterskin. The two had then settled in to torment him with their gaze.

At first he had hoped they were watching the Templars more generally, but no, Cassandra was definitely pointing at _him._ Occasionally, Iseult would nod or seem to ask a question, which just led to more talking and pointing from Cassandra. Every once in a while, Iseult would thrust with her dagger in response to an instruction from Cassandra. It gave him the feeling that they were strategizing how to carve him like a chicken. He gritted his teeth and turned his attention to his opponent.

Today was the first time he had seen Iseult take the practice field. Whatever reservations he had had about sending her into combat—unarmored, no less—were swiftly allayed. Cassandra was very good, but Iseult would have killed her several times over if they had fought with live steel. She fought with deadly grace and speed. Few outside the orders of assassins would have the pleasure of watching such a match.

The _pleasure_? he thought incredulously. He barely jerked his head aside to miss his opponent's swing. Cursing under his breath for allowing himself to be distracted, he redoubled his attack.

At length, he called for a break. Firming his resolve, he walked over to the Seeker and the Herald who were still engrossed in conversation.

"Is there something I can help you with?" he asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

"Iseult is learning tactics for fighting opponents who use sword and shield. I suggested she watch you."

"Did you learn anything?"

"A lot, actually," Iseult replied. "I can get around armor easily enough, but shields add another tactical dimension. I wasn't really trained for it. Cassandra has been helping me, but it's good to see others in practice."

Cullen grunted, not really knowing how to reply.

"Commander," Iseult said. "Have you heard of a mercenary company called the Chargers? Or maybe their leader, someone called the Iron Bull?"

He frowned. "I can't say that I have. 'Iron Bull' sounds like a Qunari nickname. They don't have real names, you know. Why do you ask?"

"I was approached by one of their members today. He gave me this." She handed him a letter. It was a poorly-spelled invitation in a blocky hand for the Inquisition to "come see the Chargers in action." There was a crude map at the bottom, with a bold X marking the location of the mercenary camp.

"They're encamped on the Storm Coast somewhere. I thought I might ride out there tomorrow to see what it's all about. I wanted to see what you thought, first."

He considered. Cullen didn't like sending their Herald off into danger without sure purpose, but the Inquisition could always use more soldiers. "Well, I doubt we'll have an answer back from Lord Seeker Lucius in less than a week. That spit of land there," he pointed to the map, "looks like Morrin's Outlook. It's little more than a day's ride from Haven, if you make good time. If you want to go, I'll send a dozen or so mounted soldiers to accompany you."

She nodded. "Thank you. We'll plan to leave at dawn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Since we don't know much about Ostwick, other than that it's south of Antiva, I envision it as being akin to Ottoman-era Turkey in terms of dress and culture. The people are dark-haired and dusky-skinned, though Iseult is a little lighter since her mother is a Vael (i.e. the pasty Scots of Thedas). The vest I describe looks something like this: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/a2/79/92/a279920e66115863d727bc7c21d087b7.jpg
> 
> 2\. Sometimes I think everything I write for Varric is meta. I just can't help myself. :)


	7. The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Try as they might, Cullen and the Inquisitor just can't quite connect.

Iseult and her party did make good time, returning in the company of the motley band of mercenaries a mere five days later. At first, Cullen had been skeptical of her decision to bring them on board, but after seeing them train with his men, he wholeheartedly approved. They would be very useful. Unlike his foot soldiers, who were common infantry, the Chargers were harriers. They could move swiftly to harass the enemy's flanks while his own men held the line. Cullen intended to put them to use in the field, as well. His mind was already calculating a dozen operations to which he could set them.

The only hitch was that this Iron Bull, a huge Qunari with massive horns that fit his self-given nickname, had decided to answer to Iseult, and Iseult alone.

It was dusk the day after they had returned. Cullen was finishing up the day's training when he noticed Iseult watching the Chargers practicing in the adjacent field. He walked over to her.

"Hello, Commander," she said with a smile as he approached. It set his heart pounding in his chest.

"What's this new exercise then?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the Chargers.

"I think it's more of a game, really. Iron Bull promised ten sovereigns to the man who could knock him over. They've been at it for nearly an hour."

"And no one's succeeded?"

"Not so far. He's running out of opponents."

They watched in companionable silence as one of the mercenaries—Dalish, Cullen thought her name was—charged headlong at Iron Bull, who swatted her aside with ease. To her credit, Dalish got back up and tried again—and again—before finally ceding her turn to the next challenger.

"Have you talked to Leliana and Josephine yet?"

"I spoke to Leliana. I think she thinks it will be a game to keep information from Iron Bull." The oddest thing about the mercenary band was that the huge Qunari was an agent of the Ben-Hassrath, who were the Qun's equivalent of Templars and spies rolled into one. He had founded the Chargers on the orders of the Ben-Hassrath, and he still reported back to them. He had been completely up-front about that fact, claiming that he would only report back to the Ben-Hassrath enough to keep them happy, but not enough to jeopardize the Inquisition's actions.

For some reason, Iseult had been convinced of his good intentions. Cullen could see why the boisterous Qunari—so unlike his taciturn brethren—might enjoy the freedoms of a roaming band of mercenaries over the strictures of the Qun.

"And Josephine?" he prompted.

"She might need some time to recover. I'm not sure she can see the justification for how much they cost."

Bull's Chargers prided themselves on being the best, and since they were the best, they were also the most expensive. Cullen considered it a worthy investment, but he knew Josephine would prefer to invest the funds on greasing the palms of nobles or providing their outpost with more services. He liked their Antivan diplomat well enough, but they had little in common.

"Are there no more who dare to face me?" Iron Bull shouted, pounding his chest. It was nearing on full dark. Torchlight winked into existence throughout the camp. The Chargers remained silent, conceding victory to their leader.

To Cullen's great surprise, from his side Iseult spoke up. "I'll take that challenge," she said with quiet assurance.

"Ha ha ha! A little thing like you thinks she can knock me down? Go ahead and try! I'll sweeten the pot for you—twenty sovereigns if you succeed."

The massive Qunari turned to face his new challenger. She ran lightly toward him. Just as he swung his huge two-handed hammer, she feinted, leaping to avoid the blow. In the same motion, she grabbed him by the right horn and swung her legs up to lock them around his neck. Using the momentum of his swing and her own jump, she extended her body outward in an arc, arms locked across her chest. Iron Bull lurched, unable to keep his balance, and came crashing down. Just before impact, Iseult maneuvered so that she landed straddling his throat, both hands pushing his horns to the ground.

The Chargers exploded with cheering and applause. Cullen found himself joining in. Iron Bull's hearty laugh could be heard above the din.

"Ha ha! You fight like a man!" he exclaimed.

"I didn’t notice any men knocking you over."

"True enough! Though if this is how you Lowlander women fight, I can see why your men like to lose so much." Cullen was horrified as the Qunari grabbed Iseult by her hips and dragged her pelvis toward his face. Grinning, he wriggled underneath her. "How about it, Boss? I haven't had a good face-sitting in a _long_ time."

Cullen started to intervene, but Iseult merely laughed and disentangled herself from his grip. " _Charming_ as that offer is, I'm afraid I have to decline," she said, standing up.

"See lads? She refuses my advances! Better buy her a drink so she'll change her mind." He winked up at Iseult from where he lay prone, though since he only had one eye, Cullen supposed it might technically be a blink. Or else all his blinks were actually winks.

Iron Bull lurched to his feet and turned to face him. "You coming, Commander? First round's on me!"

As though she weighed no more than a sack of flour, the giant Qunari hoisted Iseult up by the waist and tossed her shrieking and giggling over his shoulder. "To the tavern, lads!" he bellowed. With great cheering and clamor, the Chargers carried their prize toward the tavern. Cullen shook his head. It was nonsensical to think that Iseult enjoyed the Qunari's ribald advances, so why did he feel a sudden surge of jealousy?  He told himself he had work to do. He should leave and go back to the Chantry to read the pile of reports on his desk. And yet, he found himself following the procession to the tavern.

 

***

 "Say that to me again, and I'll cut your throat," Iseult growled, leaning in close to the Qunari.

"Fuck me, Boss."

There was a blur. It happened before Cullen could react. Iseult was holding a small knife that had previously been concealed somewhere on her person.

Iron Bull's grin was feral. "Looks like you missed."

"Did I?" She held up the knife so the tip was visible. Clinging to the edge was a tiny droplet of blood. Even as she spoke, three red drops blossomed on the Qunari's throat. Disbelieving, Iron Bull raised his fingers to his neck, withdrawing them and staring at the blood.

He pushed back his chair and drew himself to his full, towering height. The Chargers simultaneously followed suit. Cullen tensed, preparing to throw himself in front of Iseult if need be. The common room slowly grew silent as the eyes of all fixed on the exchange.

Then, Iron Bull bowed. With great formality, he intoned. "My apologies, my lady. You keep your word, as few Lowlanders do. I was wrong to test it. Your honor is mine. _Maraas toh ebra-shok._ "

" _Maraas toh ebra-shok,"_ intoned the standing Chargers, echoing their leader. As one, they knelt, one arm crossing their chest.

Beside him, Iseult rose. "I accept your offer. Rise, my _sataareth._ "

Iron Bull grinned up at her. " _Merevas,_ my lady. You know, nobody told me the Herald was a _basalit-an._ " He stood, and the Chargers let out a cheer, which was soon joined by the rest of the common room, although most of them had no idea what had just transpired. Mugs were re-filled all around—they were still drinking on the twenty gold sovereigns of Iseult's winnings, which she had gamely offered as drinks for all those present—and the merriment continued as though nothing had happened.

"What the hell just happened?" Cullen whispered to Iseult.

"To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. I read about something like this once—that's the only reason I knew what to say. We'd call it a pledge of fealty, but that's not quite right. They'll uphold my honor as their own. Of course, the Qunari have a strange sense of honor."

"Indeed," Cullen said, taking a long draught of ale. "I'm just glad no one got killed. What possessed you to do that?"

She shrugged. "I did what I said I would. I don't make empty threats."

"Remind me not to give you cause, then."

She smiled at his dour tone. "I'm glad you came. I thought you might have reports to read."

He felt heat rising in his face, and cursed himself for it. "I—I do, I mean. Though I'm glad I came as well. I doubt we'll have much free time in the months to come."

"Mm," she replied neutrally. He cursed himself again. Why could he never think of the right thing to say? He stammered around her the same way he had done around the Knight-Commander of Denerim when he first began Templar training as a lad of thirteen.

She reached across him for the jug of ale, and her thigh brushed his. Maker, but that perfume was intoxicating. She refilled his mug before filling her own. He muttered thanks.

"So, what was being a Templar like?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, start at the beginning. Why did you join the Order?"

Cullen thought about that for a moment, "I could think of no better calling than to protect those in need. I used to beg the Templars at our local Chantry to teach me. At first they merely humored me, but I must have shown promise. Or at least a willingness to learn. The Knight-Captain spoke to my parents on my behalf. They agreed to send me for training. I was thirteen when I left home."

"Thirteen," she murmured. "That's still so young."

He shrugged. "I wasn't the youngest there. Some children are promised to the Order at infancy. Still, I didn't take on full responsibilities until I was eighteen. The Order sees you trained and educated first."

"What about your family—did you miss them?"

"Of course. But there were many my age who felt the same. We learned to look out for one another."

"What about your training? What does it involve?"

"There is weapon and combat training. Even without their abilities, Templars are among the best warriors in Thedas. Initiates must also memorize portions of the Chant of Light, study history, and improve their mental focus."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I wanted to learn everything," he replied truthfully. "If I was giving my life to this, I would be the best Templar I could."

She smiled. "You were a model student, then?"

He laughed. "I wanted to be. I wasn't always successful. Watching a candle burn down while reciting the Chant of Transfiguration wasn't the most exciting task. I admit, my mind sometimes wandered."

"I can imagine." With a sudden glint in her eye, she asked, "Do Templars take vows? 'I swear to the Maker to watch all the mages'—that sort of thing?"

Cullen nodded. "There's a vigil first. You're meant to be at peace during that time, but your life is about to change. When it's over, you give yourself to a life of service. That's when you're given a philter—your first draught of lyrium—and its power. As Templars, we are not to seek wealth or acknowledgement. Our lives belong to the Maker and the path we have chosen."

"A life of service and sacrifice," she intoned. "Are Templars also expected to give up…physical temptations?"

"Physical? Why…" He cleared his throat." W-why would you…" Get a hold of yourself, he thought _._ "That's not expected," he managed to choke out. "Templars can marry—although there are rules around it, and the Order must grant permission. Some may choose to give up _more_ to prove their devotion, but it's, um, not required."

Her smile was wicked. "Have _you_?"

His face was burning. "Me? I…um…no. I've taken no such vows. Maker's Breath—can we speak of something else?"

She laughed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be teasing you. I really was curious, though. I don't know much about Templars or the Circle, truth be told."

"Ostwick has a Circle. You never encountered mages or Templars there?"

"My family's estate is in the country. They're horse breeders, you know. My parents were more interested in attending balls than spending time with my brothers and me. We ran wild, for the most part."

"I didn't know you had brothers."

"Two," she said, taking a swig. "Symon is the eldest and Joscelin is in the middle. I'm the youngest."

"What about when you were living in Val Royeaux?"

"Hm…my life there was rather…sheltered. In many respects, at least. My master—Mourrier, had another apprentice, about my age. Aimon. He used to dream of becoming a Templar, but I don't think he knew much more about them than I did. There are always Templars in romantic stories. I think his mother used to read them to him when he was a boy."

"How did Aimon come to be an apprentice?"

"His mother died during the Blight, and he was left to fend for himself. Mourrier took him in after he caught Aimon trying to cut his purse strings."

"Is he still in Val Royeaux?"

She took another draught of ale, refusing to meet Cullen's gaze. "He's dead."

He cursed himself for being three times an idiot. Cullen scrambled to change the subject, but Iseult continued.

"He tried to escape, after a time. He begged me to go with him, but I was too much of a coward. Mourrier hunted him down not three leagues across the channel. When Mourrier found out that I'd known Aimon's plan all along…well, it wasn't pleasant." She closed her eyes and shuddered. Then she drained her mug.

"I had some small influence by that time. I recovered his body. Each year I take flowers to his grave. I don't think Mourrier ever found out about that."

She stared at the empty mug in her hands.

"Iseult, I'm so sorry." He took one of her hands in his. A feeble attempt at comfort.

"Yes, well." She withdrew her hand and stood. "The bastard's dead now. Forgive me. I'm suddenly tired.  Good night, Commander."

He stared glumly at the table for a long while after she left, oblivious to the carousing that surrounded him. After a time, he drained the rest of his ale and retreated to his office in the Chantry. _Maker, what a fool am I._

 

***

 Iseult had gone straight to bed, drunk and miserable. Unbidden memories of Aimon haunted her dreams. She should not have told Cullen about his fate. Where was her self-control? Finally having a real conversation with him had been so pleasant. There had been no trace of the stern Commander when he talked about his former life as a Templar. And the alcohol had clouded her judgment. No one needed to hear depressing stories about her life in Val Royeaux, least of all herself.

" _Iseult,_ " Leliana hissed, startling her awake.

"Dammit, Leliana." Her temples throbbed. How had the spymaster snuck in so quietly?

"I've just had the reply from Lord Seeker Lucius. He's agreed to a meeting. He asked for _you_ specifically. Do you have any idea why?"

Iseult rubbed her temples, trying to soothe away the ache. She racked her brain, thinking about her one and only encounter with the Lord Seeker in the square at Val Royeaux. "I have no idea. He seemed to have nothing but contempt for me. I would have thought he'd rather speak with Cassandra. Or Cullen."

"Mm…I'm not sure myself. Perhaps he wishes to test you. To see if you really are the Herald. In any case, you must go. Therinfal Redoubt is two days' ride from Haven. You should leave in the morning."

"So soon?" Iseult did not relish the thought of being jostled down the mountain path in the cold autumn air.

"Time is of the essence. For you more than any of us. Be ready at dawn."

The spymaster vanished as silently as she had come, so that Iseult could not be entirely sure the whole thing had not been a dream.

And yet, a scant few hours later, she found herself dressed and mounted.  All of the Chargers had turned out to accompany her, along with Cassandra, the newly-arrived Warden Blackwall, Varric, and Vivienne. The Enchantress looked as composed as ever, despite the earliness of the hour. Iseult glowered at her and cursed the sun for winking light so sharply in her eyes.

"Ready for a ride, Boss?" Iron Bull asked cheerfully as his mount—a Fereldan destrier whose massive proportions matched his rider's—walked up next to hers.

"How are you not hung-over?" she asked, incredulous.

"Discipline," he intoned, swaying in the saddle. Then he hiccupped.

"You're still drun—"

"Discipline!" he insisted loudly. "Chargers, up!"

Iseult grimaced at the sound. She scanned the training ground, where they had all assembled. Cullen was at the farthest end from her, nodding at whatever Josephine was saying. He did not look in her direction.

"Let's get on with it," she announced. Without looking back, she urged her mare down the mountainside.

 

***

 Therinfal Redoubt was a nightmare.  Cassandra's hunch that something was wrong with the Lord Seeker had indeed been proven valid. The "Lucius" whom they had met had, in fact, been a desire demon who was impersonating the Lord Seeker and corrupting the upper ranks of the Templars with red lyrium.

Unlike the standard lyrium that the Templars used to gain their magic-suppressing abilities, red lyrium could affect those who were merely near it. Ordinary lyrium had to be ingested, though it, too, was highly addictive. The Chantry kept stringent regulations on the lyrium supply to ensure that the Templars could maintain their dosage.

Red lyrium, however, had been virtually unknown until the Champion of Kirkwall and his companions, one of whom was Varric, had discovered an idol of red lyrium in the Deep Roads, the long-abandoned underground dwarven passageways that connected all of Thedas. Not knowing the danger, they brought the idol back to Kirkwall, where it ended up in the hands of Knight-Commander Meredith. Over the course of several years, it had driven her mad. Her attempted slaughter of the Mages' Circle in Kirkwall had sparked the Mages' Rebellion.

No one had known that any more red lyrium had been found. Until Therinfal Redoubt.

The Templars there were not just in proximity with the toxic substance, they were actually ingesting it. Their descent into madness happened much more rapidly. Many times more potent than ordinary lyrium, their Templar abilities had been augmented to an extreme degree. The substance was so powerful, it began to corrupt their flesh, causing monstrous deformations. It was horrifying beyond description.

Their first inkling that something was wrong had been Ser Barris, a young Templar knight who had greeted them upon their arrival. He had noticed erratic behavior among some of his superiors, but he didn't know the cause. The meeting with the "Lord Seeker" had been a trap to kill the Herald, dealing a major blow to the Inquisition's authority. Fortunately, Iseult's companions were more than the demon had counted on.

With the aid of the handful of loyal Templars, Iseult had led the Chargers against the lyrium-mad Templars and the demons they summoned. There had been casualties—mostly among the Templars, who fought for the honor of their Order—but it could have been much worse.

There were many injuries, so their return to Haven had been slow. Vivienne, their sole official mage, had only had the strength to treat the most dire wounds, leaving the rest of the soldiers to nurse themselves. Iseult had pretended not to notice when the Chargers' "archer" Dalish had made her rounds in the camp to offer healing of her own. The Chargers claimed to have no mages among their ranks, since any would have to be apostates. Iseult had taken a glancing blow from a mace to her shoulder, but she was more bruised and stiff than anything. Cassandra had cracked three ribs, and Iron Bull had a half-dozen new scars to show off.

And so it was that they arrived in Haven at long last, weary and disheartened.

The Inner Circle were waiting for them at the gates. Leliana's agents would have reported the gist of the events already, so they would have known what to expect. Nevertheless, all three wore stunned expressions.

Reaching them, Iseult dismounted with deliberate care. She handed off her reins to Owein, who materialized at her side.

"Let's get this over with," she addressed the three of them gruffly, striding toward the Chantry.

"You're injured," Cullen said, his long legs easily keeping pace with hers.

"It's superficial. Have the mages and healers tend to the others first."

Cassandra joined them shortly in the War Room, and Iseult was not too surprised to see that Varric was with her. After all, he was the only one of them besides Cullen who had witnessed the effects of red lyrium firsthand.

It was a relief to allow Varric to do the talking. She and Cassandra clarified a few points, but his report was very thorough. After a few minutes, there was a knock on the door, and Solas entered.

"I understand that you, Herald, and you, Seeker, were injured in the fighting. I've come to see to your wounds."

"I'm fine," Cassandra insisted, waving him off.

"How are the others?" Iseult asked.

"Well tended to. Now it's your turn. Herald?"

Iseult sighed. His mild expression was nevertheless insistent. She undid her wide belt and shrugged out of her coat. The coat and linen were both spattered with blood that for the most part wasn't her own.

Cullen cleared his throat. "We can continue later," he offered.

"No, keep talking, Varric," Iseult insisted. So he was uncomfortable, was the Commander? Let him be uncomfortable. She was not in the mood for sympathy.

Solas had to cut off her shirt in the end because it had caked to her wound. It was just as well, since she couldn't lift her arm over her head. Josephine blanched at the sight, fluttering her hands in front of her face. Leliana was intent on Varric's story. Cullen averted his eyes.

She looked down. It looked worse than it felt. Her shoulder was a mass of dark bruises, with three shallow punctures from where the mace had made contact.

"It's superficial," Solas murmured as he probed the area with gentle fingertips.

"That's what I've said from the beginning," she retorted under her breath.

An attendant brought in a basin of warm water and some fresh bandages. Solas gently washed out the cuts. Faint blue light glowed around his fingertips as he brushed lightly over the bruise. Where they passed, the cuts mended themselves.  The bruising remained, though it was less angry than before. "I'll have them send a compress for the swelling. Now, Seeker, it's your turn."

Not to be outdone, Cassandra was forced to submit herself to Solas's treatment. As she shrugged on her coat, Iseult regretted not delaying the meeting. Cassandra was obviously uncomfortable undressing in their presence. Iseult should have realized that would be the case beforehand. To delay now would only call attention to the Seeker's discomfort.

Using his magic, Solas knitted her ribs. Though uneasy in the presence of magic, Cassandra nevertheless drew a relieved breath when he was done. Her injury must have caused her a great deal of pain on their ride back to Haven. She had never spoken a word of complaint.

Varric was finally finished telling how they had defeated the desire demon and destroyed all the red lyrium they had found in the keep. He presented them with the missives they found in the "Lord Seeker's" office, tying the red lyrium to a supplier in Emprise du Lyon.

"I'll send some soldiers to look into it," Cullen said immediately. "As many as we can spare."

"I suppose we must seek the aid of the mages, if they will still agree to meet with us. When will the Herald and Cassandra be fit to ride?" Leliana asked.

Solas shared a glance with Iseult, who nodded. "Two days," he said. "Though more would be better."

"We can no longer afford a delay," Leliana insisted.

"I agree with Leliana," Iseult found herself saying. No more delays. While she did not relish the thought of another disaster like Therinfal Redoubt, she was ready to close the Breach once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In this version of the story, the Inquisitor does both Therinfal Redoubt and Redcliffe. I thought it was more in keeping with Iseult's decisions and the situation with the Mark for her to initially choose to side with the Templars, but ultimately, I want to set up Samson and the Red Templars as the main source of conflict for Act II. I'm having my cake and eating it, too!


	8. Of Men and Mages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iseult finds herself stranded in a nightmarish future with a Tevinter mage named Dorian.

"What in the hell just happened?"

Iseult had thought it could not possibly get any worse than Therinfal Redoubt. She had not counted on Grand Enchanter Fiona having no recollection of their previous meeting in Val Royeaux, when she had extended an offer of aid from the mages. Nor had she counted on a power-mad magister named Gereon Alexius seizing control of the rebel mages' tenuous coalition in an attempt to conscript them into military service to Tevinter.

She had also not counted on Magister Alexius banishing her through a magical vortex to—where _were_ they?

Iseult looked around. They—for another Tevinter mage name Dorian had also been sucked through the vortex alongside her—seemed to be in a dungeon. The floor was flooded up to her knees, and was that red lyrium _growing out of the walls?_

The mage in whose company she now found herself looked around with curiosity. He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he talked to himself. "Displacement? Interesting! It's probably not what Alexius intended. The rift must have moved us…to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy?"

The acrid stench of the dungeon overpowered her nostrils. It mingled foul sewage and mold with the tangy smells of rust and blood. Nausea rose in her gorge and sweat broke out on her forehead. She saw the iron bars and dank walls and swinging chains and was transported back to another place—another dungeon where she had witnessed and endured terrible things. Her mind reeled with the immediacy of the memory. Her wrists remembered the bite of cold manacles and the slickness of blood as she hung for endless hours. Her ears recalled the crack of the lash and cries of pain or pleas for mercy. Iseult shuddered to remember the blinding pain as complex patterns were traced into her flesh with the finest of blades, while her blood was allowed to drain down her skin and pool in a slick at her feet which struggled to keep her upright.

Her breath came in ragged gasps and the edges of her vision were a throbbing red haze. Iseult staggered backward, knocking into a table covered with implements so rusted as to be unrecognizable.

"Oh dear," her companion said, ceasing his monologue and looking at her.  "You're panicking."

He waded daintily through the sewage to take hold of her upper arms. Dorian looked Iseult squarely in the eyes and said, "I need you to take deep slow breaths. With me. In. Out. In. Out." She followed his orders and felt her heartbeat slow to its usual rhythm. The haze around her vision gradually cleared.

"That's better," he cooed. "Now, that door is the only way out, and it seems to be locked. Am I correct in supposing you might be able to do something about that?"

She looked at the door, which was a standard barred cell door, albeit with quite a bit more rust than was customary. Not trusting her voice, Iseult nodded.

"Good!" The Tevinter mage smiled as one might smile at a child or a simpleton. Iseult scowled at him, and then focused on the task at hand.

Fortunately, the lock on the door seemed to be free of rust or mold. With shaking hands, Iseult fumbled for the lockpicks she kept in her belt pouch. To keep her mind distracted, she tried to take stock of their situation. "The last thing I remember," she said, "we were in the castle hall."

Dorian considered this. "Let's see. If we're still in the castle, it isn't…Oh! Of course! It's not simply where—it's when! Alexius used the amulet as a focus. It moved us through time!"

Through _time_? Was that even possible? Her stomach lurched. Iseult swore as her shaking hands dropped the lockpick into the putrid water.

As she fished around the slimy dungeon floor, she continued her train of thought. "Did we go forward in time or back, and how far?"

"Those are _excellent_ questions," he said, sounding very much like a teacher praising a prized pupil. "We'll have to find out, won't we? Let's look around, see where the rift took us. Then we can figure out how to get back…if we can."

_If_ we can? Her mind reeled. She shook herself. No, she could not allow herself to think of that possibility. They would find a way out of this. They had to.

Her groping fingers found the lockpick, and with no more incidents, she slipped the tumblers into their sockets. The cell door creaked open.

The proceeded side by side down a dank row of cells that were dimly lit by the glow of red lyrium. This part of Redcliffe's dungeons seemed entirely empty, though Iseult was not sure whether that was a good sign or a bad one. They were moving upward though, which meant that soon the water was only at their ankles.

"Do you want to tell me what that was about back there?" Dorian asked her.

"Some bad memories resurfaced, is all," she replied in a vain attempt to sound nonchalant.

"I suspect that is rather an understatement," he replied, refusing to be put off. "In fact, unless I totally miss my guess, you've spent rather a lot of time in places like this."

She hesitated, considering just how much to reveal to this man she had only just met. These were rather extraordinary circumstances, even by Iseult's standards, so she decided on the truth.

"I was indentured to a man—a spymaster—whose personal dungeons were rather infamous. He spent a lot of time breaking other people's informants. Sometimes I watched, and sometimes I was on the receiving end."

"So that you be able to withstand similar circumstances?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. That may have part of his motivation. But sometimes it was a punishment if I displeased him or disobeyed. And sometimes…I think he enjoyed the ritual of it."

"The ritual of it…" Dorian trailed off in thought. "He sounds like a Tevinter magister. They tend to fit a certain profile."

A stray thought tickled the back of Iseult's mind. A Tevinter magister, she mused. Mourrier had been Orlesian and certainly had no magical abilities, but he did have an unusual fascination with ancient Tevinter history. He was especially interested in the pre-Andrastian period, when the borders of Tevinter's empire had stretched nearly across the entire continent. She had always considered his interests—collecting ancient Tevinter artifacts, reading poetry and history from that time—as oddities, nothing more.

There was also his fluency in ancient Tevene, which he taught to Iseult and Aimon. The encrypted script they used for their missives was actually an ancient Tevene dialect. The symbols were arbitrary as an added layer of security, but the language itself was Tevene.

Iseult found herself remembering the afternoon that Mourrier gave her orders about the Conclave. She had stood in front of his desk, sunlight slanting through the colored panes of glass in the window behind him. He sat at his desk, as always, with a mountain of papers in front of him and a neat row of drafting instruments at his right hand.

He had told her about the position he had found for her as a scribe for Marquis Durellion. She had only a few months to make herself invaluable to the Marquis so that he would bring her as part of his retinue to the Conclave that the Divine Justinia had called. The Conclave had been announced only the week before Iseult found herself in Mourrier's office. For his plans to succeed, they would have to act quickly.

Mourrier had been very specific. The night before the Conclave, she was to infiltrate the building and hide herself in a position to view the door of the assembly chamber. She would record who entered, who left, and in what order. There was only a single point of entry for the chamber, so she would be able to observe all of those coming and going. Under no circumstances was she to enter the room. Mourrier had been adamant on that point.

Iseult could not think why she should remember that particular incident just now. She did not have long to wonder, however. Both she and Dorian, hearing the approach of mailed boots in the corridor ahead, froze in their tracks. With a glance at the mage, who nodded, Iseult eased her daggers from their sheaths and assumed a crouched fighting stance. The filthy water around her ankles was poor footing, especially since the stone floor beneath her feet was covered in slime.

A pair of guards on patrol rounded a corner. There was a strange red haze about them, Iseult noticed, and their eyes seemed to glow. They shouted as they noticed Iseult and Dorian and, drawing their weapons, began to lurch toward them. Their gait was erratic, as though their limbs were not functioning properly.

"Get down!" Dorian shouted. Iseult barely had time to drop to her stomach as a spurt of flame rushed overhead, catching the guards squarely in front. She swore as she scrambled in the slimy wetness. Her hands and daggers were soaked, compromising her grip.

Ordinary men would have dropped to extinguish the flames or cowered to protect themselves, but the guards continued to rush toward them, heedless of harm to themselves.

Iseult dodged the first blow of a mace to catch the guard with her dagger blade in his armpit. Her second blade slashed his throat at the same time as another fireball streaked by her ear, passing near enough to singe the end of her swinging braid. The fire hit the remaining guard squarely in the face, and his scream of pain was choked out as the flame licked the inside of his throat and nostrils. He dropped to the water, writhing and clutching his face. Iseult drew her dagger across his throat, ending his misery. His thrashing limbs grew still.

Then she rounded on Dorian. "Did you stop to think that _maybe_ giant fireballs aren't the best idea for an enclosed corridor? Especially when I happen to be standing between you and your target?"

"And let you take them both on by yourself?" he exclaimed. "Fire is my element. It's what I do best! I simply reacted."

"For the record," she said through gritted teeth. "I don't much like being burned. Or being covered in sewer water, for that matter." She held up her dripping arms for effect.

"Well, I'm sorry," he huffed. "I—I suppose I don't have much experience in combat situations."

She blinked. "Well, I suppose the only mages I've been around have been unusually combat-proficient." It was true. As a Knight-Enchanter, the Lady Vivienne's specialty was assisting Templars in pitched battle, and whatever Solas's background was, his focus was on creating barriers and boosting their magical defenses. There was not much chance he would accidentally singe her with an errant fireball. She supposed she had taken their competence in battle for granted. After all, most Circle mages would have no field experience, though she admittedly did not know how they did things in Tevinter.

"I can see how fire would be extremely useful in open battle," she conceded. "However, the next time you want to set our enemies ablaze, how about making sure I'm behind you? And two for me is usually no problem. Though," she nudged one of the corpses with a toe, "these don't seem exactly usual, do they?"

"I imagine it's this red lyrium growing out of the walls. They seem to be infected with it," Dorian commented. "Better not touch them, just to be safe."

He stepped delicately over the bodies, carefully avoiding any contact. Iseult, noticing one of the guards had a key ring on his belt, stooped to divest him of it before following her Tevinter companion down the corridor.

 

*** 

Their progression through the labyrinthine dungeons of Redcliffe Castle was slow and torturous. Seemingly endless corridors of cells—many showing signs of recent expansion as the dungeon over-filled its capacity—contained dying prisoners. Some were wasted away due to starvation, others were addled out of their minds, but all had succumbed to the pollution of the red lyrium.

They found Grand Enchanter Fiona, the former leader of the mage rebellion who had unwisely promised the mages' aid to Magister Alexius, in one of the cells. The red lyrium had grown over and _through_ her body, rendering her immobile, though she was still cognizant. In the lyrium haze, she informed Iseult and Dorian that they had disappeared over a year ago. Magister Alexius currently held the castle, and its upper floors were overrun with demons that awaited the return of their master, the mysterious being whom Alexius served.

She also told them that Leliana was somewhere in the castle. Iseult immediately made it a priority to find the Inquisition's spymaster.

After they left the Grand Enchanter, regretting that they could do nothing to ease her suffering, Dorian concluded that the red lyrium must in fact be feeding on the living prisoners. The lyrium itself was a living thing, which explained why it did not react or grow in predictable patterns like ordinary lyrium. The potential ramifications were chilling, but Iseult had no time to dwell on them now.

Worse than finding Fiona, Iseult found some of her companions. Many were dying or had lost their wits entirely. Blackwall raved about how they were dead and was convinced they were spirits come to haunt him. Sera did not see them at all. She sat cross-legged in a corner trying in vain to remember lyrics to nonsensical songs. Of some, like Cullen and Josephine, there was no sign.

They did find Cassandra with her mind more intact than most. Iseult did not know whether it was her Seeker training or sheer stubbornness that had preserved her mental faculties. They came upon her invigilate; she knelt in prayer and meditation.

"The light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world and into the next," she intoned. "For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water."

She stopped suddenly as she noticed Iseult and Dorian's approach. "You've returned to us!" she exclaimed. "Can it be? Has Andraste has given us another chance? Maker, forgive me. I failed you. I failed everyone. The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life."

"You look wounded. Maybe we can help," said Iseult. It was true. The Seeker was hunched over as if drawn inward by too-taut strings. She had the now-familiar haze of red lyrium around her dark eyes.

Cassandra shook her head. "Nothing you do can help me now. I'll be with the Maker soon."

"Alexius sent us forward in time," Dorian explained. "If we find him, we may be able to return to the present."

"Go back in time? Then…can you make it so that none of this ever took place?"

"If Dorian is right and can actually reverse the spell, then yes," Iseult said.

"Alexius's master…After you died, we could not stop the Elder One from rising. Empress Celene was murdered. The army that swept in afterwards—it was a horde of demons. Nothing stopped them. Nothing."

"I should have been there to help you," Iseult replied regretfully.

Cassandra rose and stepped forward, looking almost like her former self. "You're here now," she assured her friend.

Iseult found the correct key to Cassandra's cell on the pilfered key ring, and Cassandra joined them on their search. They had to backtrack to the first corridor to acquire a weapon for the Seeker, whose atrophied hands regained some of their former strength as they grasped the familiar weight of the pommel.

In a final unexplored corridor they came across both Varric and Solas who were able-bodied and sound-minded enough to join them. Varric, who had encountered red lyrium in Kirkwall, was perhaps better prepared than the others to resist its effects. Solas had immediately grasped that they had traveled forward in time, and he seemed barely affected by the lyrium.

They encountered several wandering patrols of guards as they ascended out of the dungeons to the castle proper. All were polluted with the red lyrium to varying degrees. It reminded Iseult of Therinfal Redoubt, where the corrupted Templars had actually been ingesting the stuff. How far and for how long had the lyrium spread in this nightmarish future? she wondered.

Their path took them up to the ground floor of the castle and across a drawbridge that led to the guards' barracks. Varric was frustrated at his lack of a weapon, but the guards were dispatched without incident. A staircase led upward to the second floor of the barracks—the torture chambers. Since they had not found Leliana in the dungeon cells, Iseult concluded that they would be most likely to find her here.

At the top of the stairs, Iseult heard the sounds of a scuffle through a closed wooden door. Then came the clang of iron and the sinister scrape of metal on metal.

"You will break," a man's voice threatened.

"I will die first," a cold woman's voice retorted. There was no doubt it was Leliana. Iseult flung open the door. The man, who had been brandishing a knife at the spymaster's throat, turned at their approach. Leliana was suspended from the ceiling by manacled wrists.

"Or you will," she snarled. Pulling up on her chains, she wrapped her legs around the man's throat. The man struggled and grunted to free himself as she drew him closer to her. With a sudden jerk, she wrenched violently, snapping his neck with her feet. He collapsed with a heavy thud on the floor.

"You're alive?" Leliana whispered as Iseult moved to free her from her bonds. Iseult struggled not to blanch on seeing the other woman's face. It had been badly pitted and scarred, perhaps by acid or some other torture, and the skin on her once pink cheeks was ashen and dead. The spymaster was emaciated and clearly in pain, but her eyes held fire and her same sharp intelligence that told Iseult her mind was thankfully intact.

"You're safe now," Iseult assured her.

"Forget ' _safe_.'" Leliana's tone was harsh. "If you came back from the dead, you need to do better than 'safe.' You need to end this. Do you have weapons?"

Iseult nodded.

"Good." Leliana strode to a nearby weapon rack and selected a bow and quiver of arrows. "The magister's probably in his chambers."

"You…aren't curious how we got here?" Dorian asked, perplexed.

"No."

"Alexius sent us into the future," Dorian continued, as if he had not heard. "This, his victory, the Elder One—it was never meant to be. We have to reverse his spell." He explained how they might be able to prevent this dark future from happening.

"And mages always wonder why people fear them. No one should have this power," Leliana said when he had finished.

"It's dangerous and unpredictable," Dorian said. "Before the Breach, nothing we did—"

"Enough!" Leliana interrupted. "This is all pretend to you. Some future you hope with never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was real."

With that, she spun on her heel. Iseult and the rest of their party had little choice but to follow her.

 

*** 

In the courtyard, the demons came.

The Breach had expanded to swallow the entire sky in eerie green light. Rifts opened perpetually, and it was all Iseult's party could do to traverse the courtyard and bar the doors behind them to stem the onslaught. Iseult did not know whether this was a common occurrence in this future or whether it was in anticipation of the imminent arrival of the Elder One that Fiona had predicted.

Whatever the cause, it only spurred them more quickly to the central chambers where Magister Alexius resided. They found him with his back to the door as he stared into the fireplace. At first, Iseult thought he was alone, but then she saw another figure slumped in a chair to one side of the dais at the end of the room.

"I was worried I'd have to search the whole castle for you, Alexius," Iseult said as she approached, daggers drawn.

His shoulders sagged, and his face was haggard as he turned to face them. "There's no longer anywhere to run. I knew that you would appear again. Not that it would be now. But I knew I hadn't destroyed you. My final failure."

"Was it worth it?" asked Dorian. "Everything you did to the world? To yourself?"

"It doesn't matter now," the magister replied. "All we can do is wait for the end." He told them about the Elder One's coming. During his monologue, Leliana crept unnoticed to behind the seated figure. He cried out in alarm as she jerked him to his feet and brought her dagger to his throat.

Alexius turned and cried, "Felix!"

"That's _Felix_? Maker's Breath, Alexius, what have you done?" Dorian wore a look of horror on his face.

Iseult knew that the two were friends. Felix had been gravely ill. When she first met him, he had feigned a collapse in order to slip her a note to meet Dorian in the Redcliffe chantry. There the pair of them had warned Iseult's party about Magister Alexius's plot. While the Felix from the past had been pale and a bit frail looking, the thing that Leliana held before her now barely looked human. His gray skin was stretched paper thin across the fine bones of his face. Most of his teeth and hair were gone, and his flesh had eroded to nothing over a skeletal frame. Iseult doubted his legs would bear his own weight were Leliana not supporting him.

"He would have died, Dorian!" Alexius protested. "I _saved_ him!" The magister turned toward Leliana and reached out a hand, imploring, "Please, don't harm my son. I'll do anything you ask."

"Hand over the amulet, and we'll let him go," Iseult said.

"Let him go, and I swear you'll get what you want," Alexius bargained.

"I want the world back."

It was Leliana who spoke. Her voice was flat and gravelly, having been sapped dry of humanity through suffering and despair. Before anyone could react, she drew her blade across Felix's throat. Blood gushed from the wound, and she shoved the boy toward his father.

"No," Alexius whispered. "No!"

The hall erupted in chaos. Alexius released a blast of arcane energy that sent them all staggering backward. Recovering her footing, Iseult dashed behind a pillar. The air crackled with ozone as the mages exchanged bolts of lightning and streaks of fire. Her daggers were not much use in the fray. Solas managed to counter Alexius's magical shield, and Leliana put an arrow through the magister's heart.

The grand hall was suddenly silent. Dorian moved forward to kneel beside the body of his former mentor.

"He wanted to die, didn't he?" Dorian asked softly as he removed the amulet from around Alexius's neck. "All those lies he told himself, the justifications…He lost Felix long ago and didn't even notice. Oh, Alexius…" he trailed off, shaking his head.

Iseult walked forward and rested a hand on Dorian's shoulder. "I know you cared for him," she said.

Dorian patted her hand absently. "Once he was a man whom I compared to all others. Sad, isn't it?" He looked down at the amulet in his hand. "This is the same amulet he used before. I think it's the same one we made in Minrathous. That's a relief. Give me an hour to work out the spell he used, and I should be able to reopen the rift."

Leliana strode over. "An hour?" she cried. "That's impossible! You must go now."

A booming tremor shook the building as if punctuating her point. Bits of debris and dirt rained from the ceiling, and the pillars rattled and cracked in their foundations. The ground trembled beneath their feet.

"The Elder One," Leliana breathed, and icy fear churned Iseult's stomach.

"You have to hurry. This is bad," said Varric.

"We'll give you as much time as we can," Cassandra said.

"No!" exclaimed Iseult. "I won't let you commit suicide."

"Look at us," Leliana scoffed. "We are already dead. The only way we live is if this day never comes."

The spymaster exchanged a glance with Cassandra, who nodded. The Seeker turned on her heel. Solas and Varric followed close behind. Before Iseult could protest further, they pulled open the great doors of the hall and closed the doors behind them.

"I'll get started then," Dorian said, and he turned his attention toward the amulet.

Leliana and Iseult moved to slide the great bars into their iron-banded slats to secure the double doors that were the only entrance and exit of the hall. Thunder rolled, and tremors again shook the castle.

The waiting was agony. Iseult paced back and forth in front of the dais where Dorian was examining the amulet. Her daggers were drawn and she flipped them back and forth in the elementary combat forms that were among her earliest lessons from Mourrier. Leliana, on the other hand, was still as a statue. She held an arrow nocked to her bowstring and was ready for action, but her once-beautiful face was serene.

The tremors struck more frequently and each quake threatened to bring the building down around their ears. Iseult could not have said whether minutes or hours had passed when they first heard the distant sounds of battle. The din grew louder and louder. Iseult's heart sank when the approaching enemies began their assault on the door because she knew her companions had fallen.

"Dorian?" Iseult called worriedly over her shoulder as the oaken doors rattled in their hinges.

"I need more time!" he yelled.

Sinewy demon claws splintered through the wood, forcing the lumber apart.

"Cast your spell," Leliana commanded. "You have as much time as I have arrows."

Iseult forced herself to turn away from the door and stand by Dorian's side. He was surrounded by green arcane energy, and the amulet was suspended in mid-air between his hands. The air behind him shimmered like a heat-haze. She turned back to the door. The demons had ripped their way through several of the boards and were scrambling to dismantle the bar. A hideous face appeared through one opening, and Leliana's arrow flew unerringly to sink in the creature's throat.

The spymaster began to recite the Chant of Light as the first demon squeezed through the door. Her arrows felled a second, then a third and fourth. The doors burst fully open and guards and demons poured into the hallway.

An enemy arrow caught Leliana in the chest. Iseult surged forward to help her, but Dorian caught her firmly by the arm and hauled her back.

"You move, and we all die!" he shouted. Every muscle in Iseult's body screamed at her to run to Leliana's aid. Leliana fended off the guards' swords with her bow. She had taken several wounds, but she fought with all of her remaining strength.

Dorian pulled Iseult toward the flickering vortex that swirled at the center of the dais. Iseult looked back in horror as a red lyrium-addled guard grabbed Leliana. She met Leliana's horrified gaze briefly before a demon moved forward and rended her flesh.

Through tear-stung eyes, Iseult saw more enemies moving toward the dais. Dorian yelled at her to jump and he pushed her forward into the vortex. She was swallowed by the abyss.

 

*** 

As they hurtled blindly back into the present—the scene in the great hall was exactly as they had left it, as though only seconds had passed instead of hours—a black rage enveloped Iseult. She moved and acted as if she were witnessing herself from outside her body. Her voice was barely recognizable as her own as she icily commanded that a stunned Alexius be clapped in chains and taken into custody by the Inquisition's soldiers.

Even the untimely arrival of King Alistair of Ferelden, which would have been a momentous occasion at any other time, failed to faze her. The king had come to exile the rebel mages from Ferelden's borders. Iseult offered that the Inquisition might offer safe harbor for the mages.

Grand Enchanter Fiona, who had realized by this time the gravity of her mistake, agreed that the mages had little choice but to accept whatever terms the Inquisition offered. Without thinking and to the great disapproval of several of her companions, Iseult declared that the mages should be the fully allies of the Inquisition, and they would not be subjected to the control of the Templars or any other authority.

With that, she stormed out of the great hall, not bothering to wait for a royal dismissal. Her companions were forced to follow or be left behind. As soon as their mounts could be saddled, they were on the road back to Haven.

Iseult did not speak to anyone on that return journey. Instead, her mind was preoccupied with dark thoughts. She could not escape the feeling that somehow Mourrier and her attendance at the Conclave were tied more closely to this Elder One than mere coincidence. She resolved to revisit her extensive notes from working for Mourrier in the hopes that there might be a clue that would enable her to form a connection. Unfortunately, she did not have much time. Once the mages arrived in Haven, they would go to close the Breach. Iseult did not expect she would survive that attempt. Whatever she could find out to aid the Inquisition in their cause, she would have to do it soon.

She also avoided speaking to anyone because she could not look at the faces of her friends without seeing them as they had been in Redcliffe's dungeons in that dark future. In her mind's eye, she saw them infected with red lyrium, starved, dying, haunted, or out of their wits. Dorian rode at her side on a hastily purchased gelding. His presence comforted her, even if she ignored his nattering small talk. When she had panicked in Redcliffe's dungeons, he had brought her back to sanity. That experience had formed an immediate and unspoken bond between them, though they barely knew each other.

It was Leliana she most dreaded seeing. The spymaster's bravery in the face of torture and certain death only reminded Iseult of how inadequate she felt to the task of closing the Breach.

Once they were back at Haven, Iseult had to steel herself to give her report to the Inquisition's inner council. She kept her report as perfunctory as possible, looking at her toes the entire time, and hastening away as soon as she could. The only bright spot was that Dorian had intruded and announced that he was staying on to join the Inquisition. If any of the council members had hesitations about a Tevinter mage joining their ranks, they did not voice any disapproval.

She retreated to her quarters and dragged the several volumes of notes that she had brought back from Val Royeaux out of the trunk at the foot of her bed. With a stack of parchment and pen in hand, she set to work. She had so little time remaining, and there was so much to do.


End file.
